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THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

THE AYRSHIRE BARD : 

INCLUDING ALL THE PIECES ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 

BY DR. CURRIE; 

WITH VARIOUS ADDITIONS. 



A NEW EDITION, 

WITH AK ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY, 

AND A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



" Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro* dub an' mire 

At p'leugh or cart, 
My muse tho' namely in attire, 

May touch the heart." 



LONDON: 

PUBLISHED BY JONES AND COMPANY, 

No. 3, WARWICK SQUARE. 

1826. 



•,-:* *&. 



GLASGOW : 

ANDMW * JOHN M. DUNCAN, 

I'm, Hi tO Ihl I'll' . III). 



T*" 






!M<D<BIBAIPIH2I©A>IL BKIKJCHn 



OF 



THE AUTHOR. 



Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two 
miles from the town of* Ayr in Scotland. The 
family name, which the poet modernized into 
Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. His 
father, William., appears to have been early 
inured to poverty and hardships, which he 
bore with pious resignation, and endeavoured 
to alleviate by industry and economy. After 
various attempts to gain a livelihood, he took 
a lease of seven acres of land, with a view of 
commencing nurseryman and public gardener ; 
and having built a house upon it with his own 
hands (an instance of patient ingenuity by no 
means uncommon among his countrymen in 
humble life,) he married, December 1757, 
Agnes Brown.* The first fruit of his marriage 
was Robert, the subject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent to a 
school, where he made considerable proficiency 
in reading and writing, and where he dis- 
covered an inclination for books not very com- 
mon at so early an age. About the age of 
thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, where he increased his 
acquaintance with English grammar, and 
gained some knowledge of the French. Latin 
was also recommended to him ; but he did not 
make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, 
rvas employed on his father's farm, which, in 
spite of much industry, became so unproduc- 
tive as to involve the family in great distress. 
His father having taken another farm, the spec- 
ulation was yet more fatal, and involved his 
affairs in complete ruin. He died, Feb. 13, 
1784, leaving behind him the character of a 
good and wise man, and an affectionate father, 
who, under all his misfortunes, struggled to 

* This excellent woman is still living in the family 
of her sonGiluert. (May, 1813.) 



procure his children an excellent education:; 
and endeavoured, both by precept and example 
to form their minds to religion and virtue. 

It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth 
year of his age, that Robert, first " committed 
the sin of rhyme." Having formed a boyish 
affection for a female who was his companion 
in the toils of the field, he composed a song, 
which, however extraordinary from one at his 
age, and in his circumstances, is far inferior 
to any of his subsequent performances. He 
was at this time " an ungainly, awkward 
boy," unacquainted with the world, but who 
occasionally had picked up some notions of his- 
tory, literature and criticism, from the few 
books within his reach. These, he informs us, 
were Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical 
Grammars, the Spectator, Pope's Works, some 
plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on 
Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, Justice's British Gar- 
dener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan 
Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine 
of Original Sin, a select Collection of English 
Songs, and Hervey's Meditations. Of this 
motley assemblage, it may readily be sup- 
posed, that some would be studied, and some 
read superficially. There is reason to think, 
however, that he perused the works of the 
poets with such attention as, assisted by his 
naturally vigorous capacity, soon directed his 
taste, and enabled him to discriminate tender- 
ness and sublimity from affectation and 
bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the 
twenty fourth year of Robert's age, he made 
no considerable literary improvement. His ac- 
cessions of knowledge, or opportunities of 
reading, could not be frequent, but no exter- 
nal circumstances could prevent the innate 
peculiarites of his character from displaying 
themselves. He was distinguished by a vigor- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



ous understanding, and an untameable spirit. 
His resentments were quick, and, although 
uot durable, expressed with a volubility of 
indignation which could not but silence and 
overwhelm his humble and illiterate as- 
sociates ; while the occasional effusions of his 
muse on temporary subjects, which were hand- 
ed about in manuscript, raised him to a local 
superiority that seemed the earnest of a more 
extended fame. His first motive to compose 
verses, as has been already noticed, was his 
early and warm attachment to the fair sex. 
His favourites were in the humblest walks of 
life ; but during his passion, he elevated them 
to Lauras and Saccharissas. His attach- 
ments, however, were of the purer kind, and 
his constant theme the happiness of the mar- 
ried state ; to obtain a suitable provision for 
which, he engaged in partnership with a flax- 
dresser, hoping, probably, to attain by degrees 
the rank of a manufacturer. But this specu- 
lation was attended with very little success, 
and was finally ended by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a farm in con- 
junction with his brother, with the honourable 
view of providing for their large and orphan 
family. But here, too, he was doomed to be 
unfortunate, although, in his brother Gilbert, 
he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, a man 
of uncommon powers both of thought and ex- 
pression. 

During his residence on this farm he formed 
a connection with a young woman, the con- 
sequences of which could not be long con- 
cealed. In this dilemma, the imprudent couple 
agreed to make a legal acknowledgment 
of a private marriage, and projected that she 
should remain with her father, while he was 
to go to Jamaica " to push his fortune." This 
proceeding, however romantic it may appear, 
would have rescued the lady's character, ac- 
cording to the laws of Scotland, but it did not 
satisfy her father, who insisted on having all 
the written documents respecting the marriage 
cancelled, and by this unfeeling measure, he 
intended that it should be rendered void. Di- 
vorced now from all he held dear in the world, 
he had no resource but in his projected voyage 
to Jamaica, which was prevented by one of 
those circumstances that in common cases, 
might pass without observation, but which 
eventually laid the foundation of his future 
fame. Tor once, his poverty stood his friend. 
J lad he been provided with money to pay for his 
passage to Jamaica, he might have set sail, 
and been forgotten. But he was destitute of 
5ary for the rojage, and was there- 
fore advised to raise a sum of money by pub 



lishing his poems in the way of subscription. 
They were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, 
in the year 1786, in a small volume, which 
was encouraged by subscriptions for about 350 
copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what 
eager admiration these poems were every 
where received. Old and young, high and 
low, learned and ignorant, all were alike de. 
lighted. Such transports would naturally find 
their way into the bosom of the author, 
especially when he found that, instead of the 
necessity of flying from his native land, ho 
was now encouraged to go to Edinburgh and 
superintend the publication of a second 
edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon introduced 
into the company and received the homage of 
men of literature, rank, and taste ; and his ap- 
pearance and behaviour at this time, as they 
exceeded all expectation, heightened and kept 
up the curiosity which his works had excited. 
He became the object of universal admiration 
and was feasted, and flattered, as if ithad been 
impossible to reward his merit too highly. 
But what contributed principally to extend 
his fame into the sister kingdom, was his 
fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who, 
in the 97th paper of the Lounger, recommen- 
ded his poems by judicious specimens, and 
generous and elegant criticism. From this 
time, whether present or absent, Burns and 
his genius were the objects which engrossed 
all attention and all conversation. 

It cannot be surprising if this new scene of 
life, produced effects on Burns which were 
the source of much of the unhappiness of his 
future life : for while he was admitted into 
the company of men of taste, and virtue, he 
was also seduced, by pressing invitations into 
the society of those whose habits are too social 
and inconsiderate. It is to be regretted that he 
had little resolution to withstand those atten- 
tions which flattered his merit, and appeared to 
be the just respect due to a degree of superi- 
ority, of which he could not avoid being con- 
scious. Among his superiors in rank and merit, 
his behaviour was in general decorous and un- 
assuming ; but among his more equal or inferior 
associates, he was himself the source of the 
mirth of the evening, and repaid the atten- 
tion and submission of his hearers by sallies of 
wit, which, from one of his birth and education, 
had all the fascination of wonder. His intro- 
duction, about the same time, into certain con- 
vivial clubs of higher rank, was an injudicious 
mark' of respect to one who was destined, to 



OF THE 

return to the plough, and to the simple and 
frugal enjoyments of a peasant's life. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his 
fiuances were considerably improved by the 
new edition of his poems ; and this enabled 
him to visit several other parts of his native 
country. He left Edinburgh, May 6, 1787, 
and in the course of his journey was hospitably 
received at the houses of many gentlemen of 
worth and learning. He afterwards travelled 
into England as far as Carlisle. In the be- 
ginning of June he arrived in Ayrshire, after 
an absence of six months, during which he had 
experienced a change of fortune, to which the 
hopes of few men in his situation could have 
aspired. His companion in some of these 
tours was a Mr. Nicol, a man who was en- 
deared to Burns not only by the warmth of 
his friendship, but by a certain congeniality of 
sentiment and agreement in habits. This sym- 
pathy, in some other instances, made our 
poet capriciously fond of companions, who, in 
the eyes of men of more regular conduct, were 
insufferable. 

During the greater part of the winter 1787-8, 
Burns again resided in Edinburgh, and enter- 
ed with peculiar relish into its gayeties. But 
as the singularities of his manner displayed 
themselves more openly, and as the novelty of 
his appearance wore off, he became less an ob- 
ject of general attention. He lingered long 
in this place, in hopes that some situation 
would have been offered which might place 
him in independence : but as it did not seem 
probable that any thing of that kind would 
occur soon, he began seriously to reflect that 
tours of pleasure and praise would not pro- 
vide for the wants of a family. Influenced by 
these considerations he quitted Edinburgh in 
the month of February, 1788. Finding himself 
master of nearly 5007. from the sale of his 
poems, he took the farm of Ellisland, near 
Dumfries, and stocked it with part of this 
money, besides generously advancing 200Z. to 
his brother Gilbert, who was struggling with 
difficulties. He was now also legally united 
to Mrs. Burns, who joined him with their chil- 
dren about the end of this year. 

Quitting now speculations for more active 
pursuits, he rebuilt the dwelling-house on his 
farm ; and during his engagement in this ob- 
ject, and while the regulations of the farm had 
the charm of novelty, he passed his time in 
more tranquillity than he had lately experien- 
ced. But unfortunately, his old habits were 
rather interrupted than broken. He was 
again invited into social parties, with the &d- 



AUTHOR. v 

ditional recommendation of a man who had 
seen the world, and lived with the great; and 
again partook of those irregularities for which 
men of warm imaginations, and conversation- 
talents, find too many apologies. But a cir- 
cumstance now occurred which threw many 
obstacles in his way as a farmer. 

Burns very fondly cherished those notions 
of independence, which are dear to the young 
and ingenuous. But he had not matured these 
by reflection ; and he was now to learn, that 
a little knowledge of the world will overturn 
many such airy fabrics. If we may form any 
judgment, however, from his correspondence, 
his expectations were not very extravagant, 
since he expected only that some of his illus- 
trious patrons would have placed him, on 
whom they bestowed the honours of genius, in 
a situation where his exertions might have 
been uninterrupted by the fatigues of labour, 
and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, 
he now formed a design of applying for the 
office of exciseman, as a kind of resource in 
case his expectations from ihe farm should be 
baffled. By the interest of one of his friends 
this object was accomplished ; and after the 
usual forms were gone through, he was ap- 
pointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, 
gauger of the district in which he lived. 

" His farm was now abandoned to his ser- 
vants, while he betook himself to the duties 
of his new appointment. He might still, in- 
deed, be seen in the spring, directing his 
plough, a labour in which he excelled, or strid- 
ing with measured steps, along his turned-up 
furrows, and scattering the grain in the earth. 
But his farm no longer occupied the principal 
part of his cai*e or his thoughts. Mounted on 
horseback, he was found pursuing the defaul- 
ters of the revenue, among the hills and vales 
of JSithsdale." 

About this time (1792,) he was solicited, to 
give his aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of 
Scotish Songs. He wrote, with attention and 
without delay, for this work, all the songs 
which appear in this volume; to which we 
have added those he contributed to Johnson's 
Musical Museum. 

Burns also found leisure to form a society 
for purchasing and circulating books among 
the farmers of the neighbourhood; but these, 
however praiseworthy employments, still in- 
terrupted the attention he ought to have be- 
stowed on his farm, which became so unpro- 
ductive that he found it convenient to resign 
it, and, disposing of his stock and crop, re- 
moved to a small house which he had taken 



vl 

in Dumfries, a short time previous to his lyric 
engagement with Mr. Thomson. He had now 
received from the Board of Excise, an appoint- 
ment to a new district, the emolunents of 
which amounted to about seventy pounds ster- 
ling per annum. 



While at Dumfries, his temptations to ir- 
regularity, recurred so frequently as nearly to 
overpow r er his resolutions, and which he ap- 
pears to have formed with a perfect knowledge 
of what is right and prudent. During his 
quiet moments, however, he was enlarging his 
fame by those admirable compositions he sent 
to Mr. Thomson : and his temporary sallies 
and flashes ofimagination, in the merriment of 
the social table, still bespoke a geuius of won- 
derful strength and captivations. It has 
been said, indeed, that, extraordinary as his 
■poems are, they afford but inadequate proof of 
the powers of their author, or of that acuteness 
of observation, and expression, he displayed 
on common topics in conversation. In the 
society of persons of taste, he could refrain 
from those indulgences, which, among his more 
constant companions, probably formed his chief 
recommendation. 

The emoluments of his office, which now 
composed his whole fortune, soon appeared 
insufficient for the maintenance of his family. 
He did not, indeed, from the first, expect that 
they could ; but he had hopes of promotion, 
and would probably have attained it, if he 
had not forfeited the favour of the Board of 
Excise, by some conversations on the state of 
public affairs, which were deemed highly im- 
proper, and were probably reported to the 
Board in a way not calculated to lessen their 
effect. That he should have been deceived by 
the affairs in France during the early periods 
of the revolution, is not surprising; he only 
caught a portion of an enthusiasm which was 
then very general : but that he should have 
raised his imagination to a warmth beyond 
his fellows, will appear very singular, when 

insider that he had hitherto distinguished 

If as a Jacobite, an adherent to the 
house of Stewart Yet lie had uttered 
opinions which wore thought dangerous ; and 
information being given to the Board, an in- 
quiry was instituted into his conduct, the re- 
hough rather favourable, was 

o much as to re-instate him in the good 

ipini commissioners, interest was 

ble him to retain his oflicc ; 

be was informed that his promotion was 

red, ;n:d UQSt depend on his future 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

He is said to have defended himself, on this 
occasion, in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, with much spirit and skill. He wrote 
another letter to a gentleman, who, hearing 
that he had been dismissed from his situation, 
proposed a subscription for him. In this 
last, lie gives an account of the whole trans- 
action, and endeavours to vindicate his 
loyalty ; he also contends for an independence 
of spirit, which he certainly possessed, but 
which yet appears to have partaken of that 
extravagance of sentiment which are fitter to 
point a stanza than to conduct a life. 



A passage in this letter is too characteristic 
to be omitted.—" Often," says our poet, " in 
blasting anticipation have I listened to some 
future hackney scribbler, with heavy malice 
of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that 
Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of in- 
dependence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 
to public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet quite destitute of resources within himself 
to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled in- 
to a paltry exciseman ; and slunk out the rest 
of his insignificant existence, in the meanest 
of pursuits, and among the lowest of man- 
kind." 

This passage has no doubt often been read 
with sympathy. That Burns should have em- 
braced the only opportunity in his power to 
provide for his family, can be no topic of 
censure or ridicule, and however incompatible 
with the cultivation of genius the business of 
an exciseman may be, there is nothing of 
moral turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It 
was not his choice, it was the only help within 
his reach : and he laid hold of it. But that he 
should not have found a patron generous or 
wise enough to place him in a situation at 
least free from allurements to " the sin that 
so easily beset him ;" is a circumstance on 
which the admirers of Burns have found it 
paiuful to dwell. 



Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the 
Lounger, after mentioning the poet's design 
of going to the West Indies, concludes that 
paper in words to which sufficient attention 
appears not to have been paid : " I trust 
means may be found to prevent this resolu- 
tion from taking place ; and that I do my 
country no more than justice, when I suppose 
her ready to stretch out the hand to cherish 
and retain this native poet, whose " wood 
notes wild" possess so much excellence, -To 



OF THE AUTHOR. 

repair the wrongs of suffering or neg]ected 
merit : to call forth genius from the obscurity 
in which it had pined indignant, and place it 
where it may profit or delight the world : — these 
arc exertions which give to wealth an envi- 
able superiority, to greatness and to patronage 
a laudable pride." 



Although Burns deprecated the reflections 
which might be made on his occupation of 
exciseman, it may be necessary to add, that 
from this humble step, he foresaw all the con- 
tingencies and gradations of promotion up to a 
rank on which it is not usual to look with 
contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he states 
that he is on the list of supervisors ; that in 
two or three years he should be at the head of 
that list, and be appointed, as a mattei of 
course ; but that then a friend might be of 
Service in getting him into a part of the king- 
dom which he would like. A supervisors in- 
come varies from about 120L to200L a year: 
but the business is " an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit." He proceeds, 
however, to observe, that the moment he is 
appointed supervisorAe might be nominated 
on the Collector's list, ' f and this is always a 
business purely of political patronage. A col- 
lectorship varies from much better than two 
hundred a year to near a thousand. Collectors 
also come forward by precedency on the list, 
and have, besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure 
with a decent competence, is the summit of 
my wishes/' 

He was doomed, however, to continue in 
his present employment for the remainder of 
his days, which were not many. His consti- 
tution was now rapidly decaying ; yet, his 
resolutions of amendment were but feeble. 
His temper became irritable and gloomy, and 
he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness 
and soothiug attentions of his affectionate wife. 
In the month of June, 179Q, he removed to 
Brow, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try 
the effect of sea-bathing ; a remedy that at 
first, he imagined, relieved the rheumatic pains 
in his limbs, with which he had been aillicted 



vjl 

for some months : but this was immediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his house at Dumfries, on the 
18th of July, he was no longer able to stand 
upright. The fever increased, attended with 
delirium and debility, and on the 21st ho 
expired, in the thirty -eighth year of his age. 



He left a widow and four sons, for whom 
the inhabitants of Dumfries opened a sub- 
scription, which being extended to England, 
produced a considerable sum for their im • 
mediate necessities.* This has since been 
augmented by the profits of the edition of his 
works, printed in four volumes, 8vo. ; to 
which Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, prefixed a life, 
written with much elegance and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, he is described 
as being nearly five feet ten inches in height, 
and of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
with black curling hair, expressed uncommon 
capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of 
ardor and animation. His face was well 
formed, and his countenance uncommonly in- 
teresting. His conversation is universally 
allowed to have been uncommonly fascinating, 
and -rich in wit, humour, whim, and occa^. 
sionally in serious and apposite reflection. 
This excellence, however, proved a lasting 
misfortune to him : for while it procured him 
the friendship of men of character and taste, in 
whose company his humour was guarded and 
chaste, it had also allurements for the lowest of 
mankind, who know no difference between 
freedom and licentiousness, and are never so 
completely gratified as when genius conde- 
scends to give a kind of sanction to their 
gross ness. He died poor, but not in debt, and 
left behind him a name, the fame of which 
will not be soon eclipsed. 

* Mrs. Burns continues to live in the house in which 
the Poet died; the eldest son, Robert, is at present in the 
Stamp-Office : the other two are officers in the East In- 
dia Company's army, William is in Bengal, and James in 
Madras, (May, 1813.) Wallace, the second sen, a lad of 
great promise, died of a consumption. 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



BY MR. ROSCOE. 



Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

As green thy towering pines may grow. 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

And wake again thy feathery throng; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. 

What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise 

In arts and arms thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due : 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Than when thy favouring car he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, 

Where wild fiowers pour'd their rathe per- 
And wiih sincere devotion brought [fume, 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 



But, ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoyM ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried : 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depressed, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along, 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance : 
Let flattery spread her viewless snare, 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

UnveiPd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till lost in love's delirious trance 

He scorn the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In serial pleasures unconfin'd, 
And confidence that spurns control, 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendor vies, 
Or science bids her favour'd throug 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight, 

Her spectred ills and shapes of wo : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 
With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infants' tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim, 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband and a father's name. 

'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

—Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red j 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain. 



CONTENTS. 



Biographical Sketch of the Author, . 

On the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe, 

Preface to the First Edition of Burns' 
Poems, published at Kilmarnock, 

Dedication of the Second Edition of 
the Poems formerly printed, To the 
Noblemen and Gentlemen of the 
Caledonian Hunt, .... 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale, .... 

Scotch Drink, 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to 
the Scotch Representatives in the 
House of Commons, .... 

Postscript, 

The Holy Fair, 

Death and Dr. Hornbook, 

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to 
J. R*«*******, Esq. Ayr, . 

The Ordination, 

The Calf. To the Rev. Mr. . 

Address to the Deil, . ' . 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor 
Mailie, 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, 

To J. S****, 

A Dream, . . . 

The Vision, 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigid- 
ly Righteous, ..... 

Tam Samson's Elegy, .... 

The Epitaph, 

Halloween, 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning 
Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie, 

To a Mouse, on turning her up in her 
nest with the Plough, November, 
1785, 

A Winter Night, .... 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, . 

The Lament, occasioned by the unfor 
tunate issue of a Friend's Amour, 

Despondency, an Ode, . 

Winter, a Dirge, .... 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death, 

Stanzas on the game occasion, 



Page 

iii 
viii 



7 

8 

9 

11 

13 
16 

18 
ib. 

19 
20 
21 
23 
24 

27 

28 
29 
ib. 

33 



34 

35 
36 

37 
38 
39 
ib 
42 
43 
ib. 



Verses left by the Author, in a room 

where he slept, having lain at the 

House of a Reverend Friend, . 

The First Psalm, 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent 

Anguish, 

The first six verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm, ....,, 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 

down with the Plough, in April, 1786, 
To Ruin, . . 
To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems as 

a New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787, 
Epistle to a Young Friend, . 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West 

Indies, ....... 

To a Haggis, ...... 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church 

Address to Edinburgh, .... 
Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish 

Bard, 

To the Same, 

To W. S*****n, Ochiltree, May, 1785, 

Postscript, 

Epistle to J. R******, enclosing some 

Poems, 

John Barleycorn, a Ballad, . 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on 

Nith-Side, . . . ' ♦ 
Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs,— — >, 

of 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, , 

The Epitaph, 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, . 
Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord of 

Whitefoord, Bart, with the foregoing 

Poem, 

Tam O' Shanter, a Tale, 

On feeing a wounded Hare limp by me, 

which a fellow had just shot at, 
Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 

crowning his bust at Ednam, Rox» 

burghshire, with Bays, . , , 
Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, , 
On a Noisy Polemic, .... 

On Wee Johnie, 

For the Author's Father, . , 



Page 



44 

ib. 



ib. 

45 

ib. 
ib. 



46 
ib. 

47 

48 
ib. 



50 

51 
52 
53 
54 

55 
56 

62 

63 
ib. 
64 
65 
66 



ib. 



ib. 
70 

ib. 
ib. 
ib, 



CONTENTS. 

Page 



I! 



70 

ib. 
ib. 



i 

\ ^ f^n, .... 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, collecting the 
Antiquities of that Kingdom, 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young 
Lady. Written on the blank leaf of a 
Book, presented to her by the Author, 

On reading in a Newspaper the Death 
of John M'Leod, Esq. Brother to a 
young Lady, a particular Friend of 
the Author's, 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to 
the Noble Duke of Athole, 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- 
Turit, 

Written with a Pencil over the Chimney- 
piece, in the Parlour of the Inn at 
Kenmore, Taymouth, 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the 
Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness, 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 
Born in peculiar Circumstances of 
Family Distress, . . . . 

The Whistle, a Ballad, 

Second Epistle to Davie, 

Lines on an Interview with Lord 
Daer, . .... 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named 
Echo, 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson, 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. 
C. J. Fox, 

To Dr. Blacklock, .... 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre Ellis- 
land, on New-Year's-Day Evening, 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Mon- 
boddo, 

The Rights of Woman, . . . 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, 
on her Benefit Night, Dec. 4, 1795, at 
the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Verses to a young Lady, with a present 
of Songs 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy 
of his poems presented to a young 
Lady, 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. 
William Ty tier, 117 

Caledonia, 118 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had 
sent him a Newspaper, and offered to 
continue it free of expense, 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, 

Sketch— New Year's Day, . 

Extempore, on the late Mr. William 
Smellie. 



71 



ib. 



72 



ib. 



73 



ib. 



74 



ib. 
ib. 
76 

77 

79 

ib. 
ib. 

81 

ib. 

82 

ib. 
83 



84 



95 



104 



119 

ib. 
180 



Page 



121 



Poetical Inscription for an Altar to In- 
dependence, 

Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel, 
Esq 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice, 

The Epitaph, 

Answer to a Mandate sent by the Sur- 
veyor of the Windows, Carriages, &c. 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day, 

To a young Lady, Miss Jessy , 

Dumfries ; with Books which the Bard 
presented her, 

Sonnet, written on the 25th of January, 
1793, the Birth-day of the Author, on 
hearing a Thrush sing in a morning 
walk, 

Extempore, to Mr. S**e, on refusing to 
dine with him, 

To Mr. S**e, with a present of a dozen 
of porter, 124 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, col- 
lector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796, 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- 
fended, 

Poem on Life, Addressed to Col. De 
Peyster, Dumfries, .... 

Address to the Tooth-ach, 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fin try, on 
receiving a favour, .... 

Epitaph on a Friend, .... 

A Grace before Dinner, 

On Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs. 
Dunlop, of Dunlop, .... 

A Verse. When Death's dark stream I 
ferry o'er, 

Verses written at Selkirk, 

Liberty, a Fragment, . . . 

Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, 

The loyal Natives' Verses. 

Burns — Extempore, .... 
To J. Lapraik, .... 

To the Rev. John M'Mafh, enclosing a 
copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which 
he had requested, .... 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline, 
recommending a Boy, 

To Mr. M' Adam, of Craigen-Gillan, . 

To Capt. Riddel, Glenriddel, 

To Terraughty, on his Birth-day, 
To a Lady, with a present of a pair of 
drinking-glasses, .... 

The Vowels, a Tale, .... 

Sketch, 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's 

Benefit, 

Extemporaneous Effusion on bein< 

pointed to the Excise, 
On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G. 
On the same, 



121 

ib. 
ib. 
122 

ib 
123 



ib, 



ib. 



ib. 



ib. 
ib. 

125 

ib. 

127 

ib. 
ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
128 
129 

ib. 
130 

ib. 

ib. 



ib. 

132 

ib. 
ib. 
133 



ftp- 



ib. 
ib. 
134 

ib. 

ib. 
135 
ib. 



CONTENTS. 



On the same, . . . . 

To the same, on the Author being 

threatened with his resentment, 

ie Dean of Faculty, 

:ternpore in the Court of Session, 
^erses to J. Ranken, 
>n hearing that there was falsehood in 

the Rev. Dr. B 's very looks, 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish 

Fifeshire, . . « . 
Elegy on the Year 1788, a Sketch, 
Verses written under the Portrait of 

Fergussou, the Poet, . 
The Guidwife of W auchope-house to 

Robert Burns, .... 
The Answer, .... 
The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire, 
The twa Herds, .... 
Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Burns 
The Answer, . . . . 
Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on 

the publication of his Essays, 

Letter to J— s T 1 Gl nc r. 

On the Death of Sir James Hunte 

Blair, 

The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata. 



SONGS. 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 
Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Ae fond kiss and then we sever, 
Again rejoicing nature sees, 
A Highland lad my love was born, 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the trees where humming bees, 
An O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy De 

cember ! 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 

As I cam in by our gate-end, 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

As I was a-wandering ae morning in 

spring, 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty'i 

alarms, . .... 



Page 
135 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
136 

ib. 

ib. 
ib. 

137 

147 
148 
154 
155 

156 

ib. 

157 

ib. 

158 
159 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee 

dearie, . . . . • . 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
Bonnie lassie will ye go, 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 



61 
92 
141 
60 
160 
146 
145 
112 

114 
71 
107 
149 
117 

147 

105 

59 



139 
107 



106 
112 



But lately seen in gladsom/ v ; 
By Allan stream 1 chancer i ' 
By yon castle wa', at the ,j 
day, 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? . 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, . 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Deluded swain, the pleasure, 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 
Duncan Gray came here to woo, . 

Fair the face of orient day, . 
Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 

earth, and ye skies, . 
Farewell thou stream that winding 

flows, 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong- 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
First when Maggie was my care, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes, .... 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 
Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
How can my poor heart be glad, 
How cruel are the parents, 
How long and dreary is the night, 
How pleasant the banks of the clear 

winding Devon, 
Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

I am a bard of no regard, 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 

I am a son of Mars, 

I do confess thou art so fair, 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were 

springing, .... 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 
£ hae a wife o' my ain, 
I once was a maid tho' 1 cannot tell 

when, . 



83 

96 
100 
108 

92 
129 
100 
150 



159 



I hae a wife o' my ain, 

I'll ay ca' in b]tf>on town, 

I'll kiss thee y&, yet, 

Id simmer when the hay was mawn, 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot 

when, 

Is there for honest poverty 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

It was the charming month of May, 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
John Anderson my jo, John, . 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose.' . 



CONTENTS. 

Page 



tell 



78 
142 
143 
112 

159 
100 

58 



126 
110 



126 



90 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen, 104 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, . . 161 

Let not woman e'er complain . . 97 

Long, long the night, .... 102 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, . . 106 

Louis, what reck I by thee, . . • 116 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, . 103 
Musing on the roaring ocean, . . 107 
My bonny lass, I work in brass, . • 161 
My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 98 
My father was a farmer upon the Car- 
rick border, O, 140 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, . 110 
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart 

- is not here ; 138 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, ^ . 116 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, . 150 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, . 126 

hjae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, . 122 
No churchman am 1 for to rail and to 

write, 62 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in greed 141 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature 

array?, 100 

Now nature bangs her mantle green . 64 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers . 93 
Now spring lias cloth'd t'>e groves in 

green, .103 

Now westlin winds and slaughtering 

guns, 68 

O ay my wife she dang me, . . . 151 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, . . . 104 

O cam ye here the fight to shun, . . 120 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, . . 109 

() ^in my low: were yon red rose, . . 90 

<) guid ale comeii and guid ale goes, . 150 

o how can I be blithe and glad, . . 141 

I -ii the door, some pity to show, . 88 

Oh, wert thou in tho cauld blast . . 123 



Pagt 

O ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten 89 

O lassie, art thou fleepin yet? . . 101 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, . 151 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, . 112 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, . 90 

O lovely Poily Stewart, . . . 149 
O luve will venture in, where it daur na 

weel be seen, 113 

O Mary, at thy window be, . . . 87 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 116 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 111 

O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, . 87 

O my love's like a red, red rose, . . 117 
On a bank of flowers, one summer's 

day, 151 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, . 143 

One night as 1 did wander, . . . 145 

O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, . . 79 

O Philly happy foe the day, . . . 99 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, . 86 

O raging fortune's withering blast, . 146 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley, ... 85 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? . . 97 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 101 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, . . ib. 

O, this is uo my ain lassie, . . . 103 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, . . 108 

Out over the Forth 1 look to the north, 142 

O, watye wha's in yon town/ . . 116 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! . . 109 

O wha is she that lo'es me, . . . 125 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? . 138 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 92 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, . . 110 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 

Dunbar, 149 

O why the deuce should I repine, . 163 

Powers celestial, whose protection . 144 

Raving winds around her blowing, . 107 

Robin shure in hairst, . 149 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, ... 96 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, . 127 

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, . . 94 

See the smoking bowl before us, . . 162 
She's fair and fause that causes my 

smart, ]J5 

She is a winsome wee thing, . . .85 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, . 93 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, . 160 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 

creature, 97 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul 

desires, 152 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? . 106 

Streams that glide in orient plains,, . 78 

Sweet fa'* tho eve on Cragie-burn, . 103 



CONTENTS. 



The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, . 
The Catriue woods were yellow seen, . 
The day returns, my bosom burns, 
The deil cam fiddling thro' the town, . 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn, 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of 

the hill, ...... 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

The small birds rejoice in the green 

leaves returning, . 
The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, . 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, . 
The winter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last, 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lands reckon, . . . . 
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in 

yon glen, 

There's a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity, . . . 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 

braes, 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, 

bonnie lass, 

There was a lad was born ai Kyle, 
There was a lass and she was fair, 
There were five carlins in the South, . 
Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! . 
Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
True hearted was he, the sad swain of 

Yarrpw, . ... 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 
'Twas even, the dewy fields were green, 



Page 

150 
109 

ib. 
144 

60 



144 

109 
116 

79 
115 
110 

147 

102 

86 



87 

149 
146 

90 
152 
106 

94 
141 

93 

77 
147 



113 
76 



Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my 
ruin ; 

Up in the morning's no'for me, 

Wae is my heart and the tear's in my e*e, 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Wha is this at my bower door ? 
What can a young lassie, what shall a 

young lassie, ... 
When first lcame to Stewart Kyle, 
When Guilford good our pilot stood, . 
When o'er the hill the eastern star, 
When January winds were blawing 

cauld, 

"When wild war's deadly blast was 

blawn, 

Where are the joys 1 hae met in the 

morning, 

Where braving angry winter's storms 
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
While larks, with little wing, 
Why, why tell thy lover, 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams, 
around, ..... 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, . 
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
Ye gallants bright 1 red you right, 
Yestreen J had a pint o' wine, 
Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
Yon wild mossy mountains, 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad, 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 



XV 
Page 

102 

137 

144 
150 
140 

111 

146 

57 

84 

153 



94 
108 
115 

91 
105 

85 
114 

ib. 



85 
113 
114 
137 
144 
149 
139 
142 
145 
136 



PREFACE 

TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 

BURNS' POEMS, 

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. 



The following trifles are not the production I 
of the poet, who, with all the advantages of ' 
learned art, and, perhaps amid the elegancies 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a 
rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Vir- 
gil. To the author of this, these and other 
celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in their original language, a fountain shut 
up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the 
necessary requisites for commencing poet by j 
rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he j 
felt and saw in himself and his rustic com- 
peers around him, in his and their native 
language. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least from the earliest impulses of 
the softer passions, it was not till very lately ; 
that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of 
friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to 
make him think any thing of his worth show- } 
ing ; and none of the following works were , 



composed with a view to the press. To amuse 
himself with the little creations of his own 
fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious 
life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the 
loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his 
own breast : to find some kind of counterpoise 
to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — 
these were his motives for courting the Muses, 
and in these he found poetry to be its own re- 
ward. 

Now that he appears in the public character 
of an author, he does it with fear and trem- ! 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, 
that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, ' 
shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded j 
as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding j 
his nonsense on the world ; and, because ' 
he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel j 
Scotch rhymes together, looking upon him- | 



self as a poet of no small consequence, for- 
sooth ! 

i 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to 
our language, our nation, and our species, 
that " Humility has depressed many a genius 
to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" 
If any critic catches at the word genius, the 
author tells him once for all, that he cer- 
tainly looks upon himself as possessed of some 
poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the 
manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre 
below the worst character, which, he hopes, 
his worst enemy will ever give him. But to 
the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawn- 
ings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, 
even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not 
the most distant pretensions. These two justly 
admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 
eye in the following pieces; but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame than for servile 
imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the Author returns his 
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow 
over a counter, but the heart-throbbing grati- 
tude of the bard, conscious how much lie owes 
to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying 
him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of 
every poetic bosom— to be distinguished. He 
begs his readers, particularly the learned and 
the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, 
that they will make every allowance for educa- 
tion and circumstances of life ; but if, after a 
fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall 
stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let 
him be done by as he would in that case do 
by others — let him be condemned, without 
mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 



DEDICATION 



SECOND EDITION OF THE 



POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED. 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his 
Country's service — where shall he so properly 
look for patronage as to the illustrious names 
of his native Land ; those who bear the hon- 
ours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? 
The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, 
as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— at 
the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the 
joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of 
my native soil, in my native tongue : I tuned 
my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She 
whispered me to come to this ancient Me- 
tropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under 
your honoured protection : I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I 
do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- 
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is 
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address 
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- 
ing for a continuation of those favours : I was 
bred to the Plough, and am independent. I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell 
the world that I glory in the title. 1 come to 
congratulate my Country, that the blood of her 



ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my 
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Hon- 
our, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, 
in the ancient and favourite amusement of 
your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your 
party ; and may Social Joy await your return : 
When harassed in courts or camps with the 
jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may 
the honest consciousness of injured worth 
attend your return to your native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- 
come, meet you at your gates ! May corruption 
shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and 
may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness 
in the People, equally find you an inexorable 
foe! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 
April 4, 1787. 



g®lMs 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS, 

A TALE. 

Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at name, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 



The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or d"ke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' flossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ithf r. 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 

* Cuchu'lin's dog in Oman's *irigjl. 



Wi' social nose whyles snnff'd and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd itherin diversion ; 
Until wi' dafrin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

CiESAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian': 
An* what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar j whyles they're fash'teneugh j 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An* nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 



_ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
\e maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger -, 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly duels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

CjESAR. 

But then to see how ye're ncgleckit, 
How huft'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckil! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fu'k, 
As 1 wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble. 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches > 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortUh's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' Wi\es ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their lire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth w' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mend the Kirk and Stale affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comiu, 
Au' i'erlie at the folk in Lou'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
U hen rural Itfe, <>' ev'rj station, 
L'nitc ii 



Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackkt crouse, 
The young anes rautin thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Arg riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha ihiuks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin, 
For Britain's guid his saul indentm — 

CjESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it ! 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
.An' saying aye or no's they bid him, 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
To learn ion ion, an' see the warP. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the *out, 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
A«i' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themscls wi' k intra sports, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ft wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
1 he Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter \ 
For thae frank, ran tin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Casar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

CiESAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare 1 am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An^e'en their sports, their balls an races, 
Their galloping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' itlier, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictuv'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentrv's life in common. 



By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ! 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took affhis several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other poet s raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories w r rack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse I guid auld Scotch Drink : 
W r hether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her ccod, 
In soujtfe scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood 3 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin, 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 
Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Care ; 



Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 
At's weary toil, 

Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi* Gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker! 

When Vulcan gies h>s bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath 

F th' luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewin* comes on like death 

At every chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The bravvnie, bainie, ploughman chiei, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehamrner, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 



When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel I 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 



• lhiriicuin—lr.un t/irri hid - tbe Blacksmilh- 
approprUtt tit)*!. K. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Aldke! that e'er my Muse has reason 



To wyte her countrymen wi' treason I 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 
E'er spier her price. 



Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 



O Whisky ! saul o' plays an' pranks f 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes— they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 



Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast 

May kill us a'; 
For royal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 



Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 
There, seize the blinkers 
And bake then up in brunstane pies 

For poor d— n'd drinkers. 



Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and Whisky gill. 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 
Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE AUTHOR'S 



EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 



SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES, 



HOUSE OF COMMONS, 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best—— 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your Honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a— 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' Hue's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavitce ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle deevil blaw ye soutb, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb .' 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want e'm. 

In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er cl&w your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an* haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch Dis- 
tilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Au- 
thor return their most grateful thanks. 



Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkiu stoup as toom's a whissle : 
An' d — mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid risiughot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves. 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could I like Montgom'ries fight. 

Or gab like Boswell 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honors, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham,) 
An' ane, a chap that's d— mn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 
An' monie ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brilhers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 

* Sir Adam Ferguacn. E. 

t The present Duke of Montrosa. (1800.^ E- 



3 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 
Ye'll see't, or lang, 

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 
Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her blnid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L— d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For G-d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, 
To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' spot tin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's* 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tonguo; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 
She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support yc ; 



• A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Maud* 
ltai,wltere he sometime! studied Politics over a glass 

• I >i 1. 1 mid Scotch Drink, 



Then, though a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 
Before his face. 

God bless your Honors a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and bratr o' claise, 
In spite o'a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamie's! 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

While Rao his name is 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See futuie wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, ' 

Butblythe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charrr 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarrn 
The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swithcr 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp— a shot— they're aff, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease 
him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 
An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 
In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 



i 



BURNS' POEMS, 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 



Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! 
Tak affyour dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 



Hypocrisy a-la-rnode. 



I. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air, 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appeay'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an'claes ! 
Their visage, withered, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of 
Scotland for a Sacramental occasion. 



IV. 



Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



Y. 



" My name is Fim— your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to ********* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

VI, 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

VII, 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid- 
claith, 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin, 
Some carrying dales, some chairs aD' stools. 

An' some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

B 



10 



BURNS' POEMS. 



IX. 



Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our kintra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa- three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae K— — ck 

For fun this day. 

X. 

Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo* their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

WY screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom. 

Unken'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er, 

Is silent expectation ; 
For »»•*** speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o' * * * * *'s face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 

Hear how he clears the poiuls o' faith, 

Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh how they lire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day! 



XIV. 



But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
***** opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For ****** *, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mini has view'd it, 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day. 

XVII. 

Wee ******, niest, the Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day 



XV11I. 



Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang 

Wi' Logic an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

A street so called, wliich faces the tent in — — . 









BURNS' POEMS, 



11 



XIX. 



Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mail 

Then either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations, 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black ****** is na spairin : 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' H-ll, where devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow * 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' cajps, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



XXIV. 



In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets naes lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

XXVI. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow ah' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



12 



Bat this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

I «' Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no designed to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard. 



The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

1 cou'd na tell. 

1 was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker : 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie swither ; 
An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-tae'd leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava ! 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

•« Guid-een," quo* I ; " Friend ! hae ye 

been mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 
Will ye go back ?" 

It spak right howe,— " My name is Death, ' 
But be na fley'd. "—Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie: 
I red ye weel, lak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

• This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 



** Weel, weel I" says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're greet 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come, gies your news ; 
This while* ye hae been monie a gate 

At monie a house." 

" Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the butching bred, 

An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till aue Hornbook's^ ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur rne. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan% 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans baud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, 
They hae piere'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art, 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

II Hornbook was by, wi' ready ait, 
And had sae fortify 'd the part, 

» An epidemical fever was then raging in th» 
country. 

t This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; bu* 
by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothc 
cary, Surgeon, and Physician. 

t liuchan's Domestic Medicine. 



BURNS' 

Tbat when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 

Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
Of a kail-runt. 

l * I drew my sithe in sic a fury, 
1 nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
Rut yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

** Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it 

At once he tells't. 

" And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas : 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o* Midge-tail-clippings, 

And monie mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny GeJ's Hole* now," 

Quo' I, " if that the news be true ! 

His braw calf- ward whare go wans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi* the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnie !" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a* be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 



* The grave-digger. 



POEMS. 13 

This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 

Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel 

bred, 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

" A kintra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, 
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : 
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : 

" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 

A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO J. B*********, Esq. AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 
thorn bush : 



14 



BURNS' 



The soaring lark, the perching red-breast 

shrill, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling 

o'er the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though hi9 artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 

strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
SkilPd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When B********* befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom 

swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their v/inter- 
hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's bi'ing, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's 

tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
( What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow 

springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon- 
tide blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; 
Ac night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 



POEMS. 

He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left 

about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'dout he knew not where nor wlvj :) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock\ had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower j had sworn the fact was 

true : [roar, 

The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and 

tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering 

stream. — 
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard , 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is 

heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Gos$ drives on the wheeling 

hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them,) 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
ln's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guideen :- 

AULD BRIG. 

1 doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep 

shank, 
A nee ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank; 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day, I doubt, ye'll never see, 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 
f The two steeples. 
t The gos-hawk, or falcon. 



I BURNS' 

here'U be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
ome fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 



NEW BRIG. 



Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi'your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheeLbarrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat- 
stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puflTd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll bo a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn 1 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa- three winters will inform you better, 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hiil3 where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or stately Lngar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpali draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting 

thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck,\ down to the Rotton- 

key,% 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthened, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies : 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, 1 needs must say't 

o't ! [o't ! 

The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 

Hanging with threatening jut, like precipices ; 

# A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

t The banks of Gavpal Water is one of the few places 
in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring 
beings, known by the name of Ghaistx, still continue per- 
tinaciously to inhabit 

\ The source of the nvci Ayr. 

4 A small landing place above the large key. 



POEMS. 15 

O'er arching, mouldy, glocm- inspiring coves 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows .and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And Still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, ot 
sea. [taste 

Mansions that would disgrace the building 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Naelanger Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
Butstaumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Bar- 
bers, 
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d— d new 
Brigs and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to throne^ 



16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under favour o' yourlanger beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; 
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once be- 

tray'd them, [them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright: 
Adown the glittering stream they featly 

danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan,* thairm -inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
f he lover's rapturd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 
Spring ; 



« A well known performer of Scottish music on the 

violin. 



Then, crown'd vwm now'ry hay, came rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

corn ; [show, 

Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kindling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to Frugal Heaven.— 
To please the Mob they hide the little given. 



I. 

Kilmarnock Wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to B-gb—'s in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 



II. 



Curst Common Sense that imp o' h-11, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;■ 
But O ******* aft made her yell, 

An'R**** * sair misca'd her ; 
This day M< ****** • takes the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

III. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 
An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 

• Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on 
the admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. 
to the Laigh Kirk. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



17 



O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

An' gloriously shall whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham* leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger; 
Or Vldneas t drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, t the scauldin jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 



There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them suflicient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 



VI. 



Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rovvte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runt& o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

VII. * - 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To" think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails flyin 

Fu' fast this day ! 



Genesis chap ix. ver. 22. J Number?, ch. xxv. ver. 8 
X Exoilus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 



VIII, 



Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewiu ; 
And like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

IX. 

Now R******* harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of A**, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the N-th-rt-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet- weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 



X, 



M * * * * * and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 
And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 

XI. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein thro' the city : 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there — they're packed art' to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 
C 



BURNS' POEMS. 



XLII. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 

M 4 * * * * * * * f R « * * * » are the boyg> 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse, 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

XIV. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them affin fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 
TO THE REV. MR. 



On his Text, Malachi, th. iv. ver. 2. " And they shall 
go forth, and gro.v up, lL\e calves of the stall." 

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf ! 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot J 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

• New Light is o c.-uit phrase, in the West of Scotland, 
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich 
has defended so strenuously. 



And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

*' Here lies a famous Bullock /" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led th' embattled Seiaphim to war. 

Milton. 



O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma* pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel I 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong- vving'd tempest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pry in, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 

Or, rustlin, thro' the hoortrees comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 



*i' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 
Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick— quaick — 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

v On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Haa-kie's gaen 

As yell's- the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then Water-kelpies hauut the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Travelers are allnr'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons* mystic icord an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whvp 

Affstraught to hell! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird 
In shady bow'r : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



19 



Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

( Black be your fa' ! ) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang better fo'k, 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scavvl, 
Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse,. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-benJ 
O wad ye tak a thought an' mtn' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — ■ 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch; 

* Vide Milton, Book VI. 



20 



BURNS' POEMS. 



There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc * he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stair's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length Poor Mailie silence brak. 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' now my dying charge 1 gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him, save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
W' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

«' An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wan restfu' pete/ 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor ioop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. 

" An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
M'i' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 

* A nccljor hcrd-callan. 



But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her e'en amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 

Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 

Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie r s dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear* 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 

Her living image in her yowe, 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 



She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
Than Mailie dead. 



. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



21 



Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing— a rape ! 
I maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune I 
Come, join themelancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S****. 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much. 

Blair. 



Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
4nd ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Te've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you afF, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to las"h ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash ; : 
Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For »ne, an aim I never fash"; 

I rhyme for fun. 



The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

O' kintra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that v/ay bent, 

Something cries, *' Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

«' There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone J 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted, fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand v 
Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace . 

When ance life's day draws near the gloaminj 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ,- 



22 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin, 
An' social noise ; 

An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman, 
The joy of joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 
And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, 

They aften groan. 



Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining— 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 
Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here ning to the door, 
And kneel, " Ye Powers!" and warm implore, 
" Tho' i should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to kintra lairds, 
Til' icicles hing l'rac their beards ; 



Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour; 

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 



" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent., 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 



" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 



An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's 1 may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 



O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool 

How much unlike! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke ! 



Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 



Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise / 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

—Ye ken the road. — 



Whilst I— but I shall haud me there- 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang 
Content wi' youto mak a pair, 

\Vhare'cr I gang. 



' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



23 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deedr, the statute blames with 

reason j 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



On reading, in the public papers, the Laureafs Ode, with the other 
parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropped asleep* 
than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee ; and 
in his dreaming fancy made the following Address.] 



V. 



Guid-mornin to your Majesty! 

May heav'n augment your blisses, 
On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

II. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By monie a lord and lady ; 
" God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sanj 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

VI. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a Uase, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-Jit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent/ 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



£4 



BURNS' POEMS. 



For you, young potentate o' W , 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

Fm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XL 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,\ 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 

For you, right rev'rend O , 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribban at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disow r n yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stein the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 

Youug, royal Tarry Breeks, 1 learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley,\ stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
Ou onie day. 

• King Henry V. 
+ Sir John Faktaff: vide Shakspeare. 
% Alluding to tlio newspaper account of a certain royal 

uiiijr's air.our. 



XV. 



God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing. 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or somo rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would he rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 



* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions .of 
a disgrtsive poein. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pher- 
son's translation. 



BUHNS' POEMS. 



25 



When click ! the string the snick did draw 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honor. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen ; 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
A nd such a leg ! my bonnje Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling threw, 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 
floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 
On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 



Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fait* 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

1 could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race* heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back -recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthorn foes. 

His Country's Saviour,t mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton , s,X heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark §,who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish shade, |J 
! Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
| I mark'd a martial race, portray 'd 

In colours strong ; 
| Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 



They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,! 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunt9 for friendship or for love) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe ** 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That, to adore. 

• The Wallaces. t William Wallace. 

% Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal 
preserver of Scottish independence. 

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- 
mand, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the famous bat- 
tie on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious 
victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct, and 
intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died 
of his wounds after the action. 

|| Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district, ol 
Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, 
near the family-scat of the Montgomeries of Coil's-field, 
where his burial-place is still shown. 

IT Barskimming the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk. 

** Catrine, the scat of the late doctor, and present pro- 
fessor Stewart. 
D 



26 



BURNS J 



Bry done's brave ward* I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who oall'd on fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming/air; 
A whispering throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
T come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

' Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 
Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
The tuneful art. 

" 'Moug swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

" And wheu the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 
In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beutiie sun^ 

His ' Minstrel lays ,' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assij;n'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 

* Colonel Fullarton. 



The rustic Bard, the lab 'ring Hind 
The Artisan; 

All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 
The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy youDg eye. 

" Or, when the deep green-mantl'd earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love 

" When ripenM fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their eve ning joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 



BTJHKTS' 

•* When youthful love, warm-blushing, 
strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" 1 taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends : 
And some, the pride of CoiWs plains, 

Become thy friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can 1 show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor kings' regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 



POEMS. 



27 



" To give my counsels all in one 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 



u And wear thou this" — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 

OR, THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 






M y son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them ay thegither j 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither ; 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. IS. 



I. 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's faults and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 



Ill 



Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Y'our better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 
i It maks an unco leeway. 



28 



BURNS' 



See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-mnation of expenses ! 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie ipoor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God. 



Has auld K* ' 
Or great M'* 



Popi 



• * seen the Deil? 
k t thrawn his heel .' 



• When this worthy old sportsman wont out last muir- 
fowl season, he supposed it was to l.e, in Ossian's phrase, 
■ the 1 .st of his fields ;" and expressed an ardent wish to 
die and be buried in themuirs. On this hint the author [ 
composed his elegy and epitaph. 

♦ A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. 
(id* the Ordination, Ftanza II. , 



POEMS, 

OrR*******t again grown weel, 

To preach an' read ? 

" Na, waur than a !" cries ilka chiel, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

K********* lang may grunt an' grane 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 
Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That woefu' mom be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 

t Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few 
who was at that time ailing. For him, sec also the Or- 
dinRtion, c-tanza IX. 






BURNS' POEMS. 



29 



in vain the burns came down like waters, 
An acre braid ! 

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 



Owre many a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel aim'd heed ; 
" L— d, five I" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger ; 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 
Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 



There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead » 



Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' monie mae than me ; 
He had twa faults, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead 



PER CONTRA. 



Go, fame, an' canter like a filly 
i Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,* 
I Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
Tam Samson's livin. 



HALLOWEEN.f 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 



The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough under 
stood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the man- 
ners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, note* 
are added, to give some account of the principal charms and spell» 
of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of 
Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking 
part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages 
and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, to see 
the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own. 



Yes >. let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmi 



I. 



Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis DownansX dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove,§ to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night. 

II. 

\mang the bonnie winding banks, 
Where Doon nns, wimpling clear, 

Where Bruce|| ance rul'd the martial ranks, 
An' shook his Carrick spear 

* Kiltie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes us 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their bane- 
ful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial people the 
Fairies, are said on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. 

% Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 

§ A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove 
of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in coun- 
try story for being a favourite haunt of faires. 

|| The famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of 
Carrick. 



30 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm an' kin': 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night. 



IV. 



Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks* maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wa l e, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pow't for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird 01 nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 

To lie that night. 

VI. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 
To pou their stalks o' corn ;\ 

* The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a 
&ock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, 
with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with : Its being 
[jig or little, straight™ - crooked, is prophetic of the size and 
shape of the grand object of all their spells— the husband 
or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is 
(ocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and 
disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their or- 
dinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above 
the head of the door ; and thechrktian names of thepeoplo 
whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the 
priority of placing the runts, the names in question. 

t They go tothebarn-y.ini and pull each, at three several 
times, a stalk of oats. I f the third stalk wants the top-pickle, 
that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in ques- 
tion will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. 



But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

.Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin in the fause-house* 

Wi' him that night. 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits\ 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucie pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

VIII. 

Jean slips in twa, wi* tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 



X. 



Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 

* When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timbe r- 
8ic, makes a large apartment in his stack, with an ope n 
ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind : this 
he calls a. fause-house. 

t Burning the nuts is a famous charm, Theynamethe 
lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the 
fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or 
start from beside one another, the course and issue of tba 
( ourtchiu will be. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SI 



Nell's heart was dancin at the view, 
She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 

Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XI. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She. lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro* the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue * throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

XII. 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L— d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauken, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the applet at theglas-s, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an azle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

XIV. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur you fry sic sportin, 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to the 
kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; 
wind it in a new clue off the old one ; and, towards the 
latter end, something will hold the thread ; demand ivka 
hands ? i. e. who holds ? an answer will be returned from 
the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your 
future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking glass ; eat an 
apple before it, and some traditions say, you should comb 
your hair, all the time ; the face of your conjugal com- 
panion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
your shoulder. 



Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night 

XV. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green; 
An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 



XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But rnonie a day was by himsel, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

XVII. 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'mang the folk 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him : 
An' try't that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amaog the stacks, 
Tho' he was something sturtin ; 

The graip he for a harrow taks, 
An' haurls at his curpin : 

* Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp 
eeed ; harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently 
draw after you. Repeat now and then, * Hemp seed I 
saw thee, hemp seed I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is 
to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look 
over your left shoulder, ana you will see the appearance 
of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. 
Some traditions say, " come after me, and shaw thee," 
that is, 6how thyself: in which case it simply appears. 
Others omit the harrowing, and say, •« come after nv, and 
harrow tjioe. 1 ' 



82 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 

XXI. 

?4eg fain wad to the barn gaen 

To win tkree wechts o' naething ;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 
An' owre the threshold ventures ; 

But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 
Syne bauldly in she enters ; 

» Tins charm must likewise be performed unperceived, 
and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, 
taking them off the- hinges, if possible ; for there is danger 
that the being, about to appear, may shut the doors, and 
do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in 
winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call 
a wecht; and go through all the attitudes of letting down 
corn against the wind. Repeat it three times j and the 
.nird time an apparition will pass through the barn, In at 
the windy door, and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, mark- 
ing the employment or sta i«on in life. 



A ration rattled up the wa', 

An' she cry'd L — d preserve her I 

An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 
An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

XX1I1. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chane'd the stack hefaddom'd thrice,* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

Aff's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burnf 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 

* Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Sear 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom 
of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appear- 
ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a 
60uth running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' lands 
meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight 
of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie 
awake ; and sometime near midnight, an apparition, 
having the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side 
of it 



BURNS' 

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jumpir, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 



XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till butter' d so'ns,\ wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



THE AULD FARMER'S 
NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel 
in the New Year. 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an* knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

» Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul water 
in another, leave the third empty : blindfold a person, and 
lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged ; he 
(or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the clean 
water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of 
matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the 
empty dish, it foretells, with'equal certainty, no marriage at 
all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrange- 
ment of the dishes is altered. 

f Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always 
the HaUoween Supper. 



POEMS. 83 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's me ere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weei-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet-, an' cannie, 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye prane'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigb, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
E 



34> 

But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 
An' gar't them whaizle : 

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather. 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-mTd brisket, 

Wi' pith, an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep. 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
1 kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never Jap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't aw a. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax raae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 
The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last/ow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy yearb thegither ; 
We'll toyte about w i' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' snia' fatigue. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO A MOUSE, 



ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST vVITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pat tie ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow mortal ! 

I doubt na,.whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld'. 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving/omig/i* may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 



Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an'/ear. 



BURNS' 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pity less storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed skies, 
Vour loop'd and window'd raggcdness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? 

SflAKSPEARE. 



When biting Boreas, fell and douve, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r ^ 

Far south the lilt, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n yoiipon murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil d, 
The blood-stain 'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark mufll'd, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, siole — 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illurnin'd man on brother man be- 
stows ! 



POEMS. 35 

See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, aud murder o'er a land \ 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd luxuiy, flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be- 
low ; 
Where, where is love's fond, tender throe^ 
With lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone \ 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray 'rs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock 
ing blast ! 

Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy 'd keeu nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself ti 
sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss i 

1 heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad, 
The heart, benevolent and kind, 

The most resembles God, 



36 



BURN'S' POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 



A BROTHER POET.* 



January- 



I. 



While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blavv, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
1 grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 



II. 



It's hardly in a body's pow'r, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fcsh your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
M Mair spier na', nor fear na,"t 

Auld age ne'er mind a leg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has a> dome cause to smile, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
JNae farther can we fa'. 

• David Slllar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and 
author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. 
E. 

f Ramsay. 



IV. 



What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till 't, 
And sing 't when we hae done. 

V. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the. breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest ; 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay, 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 
Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heavn or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 



BURNS' 

Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'Il get there, 

Ye'll find nae other where. 

VIII. 

But tent me Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 
.And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' •, 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And 1 my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name: 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 
Thou know'st my words sincere 1 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
•And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care 1 



X. 



AH hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has bless'd me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The woids come skelpiu rank and file, 
Amaist before I ken ! 



POEMS. SI 

The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit : 
But least then, the beast then, 

Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A 
FRIENDS AMOUR, 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo ! 

Home. 



thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 
Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

II. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly -marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

Fcr ever bar returning peace ! 

III. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentiugs claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 
The promis'd Father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love .' 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 
How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 

How have I wish'd for fortune's charm?, 
For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 



38 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ad<1 must I think it ! is she gone, 
My secret heart's exulting boast ? 

And does she heedless hear my groan ? 
And is she evei, ever lost? 



V. 



Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then who her paDgs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less t 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly -treasured thoughts employed. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if 1 slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard- wild, in sore affright : 
Fv'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

() ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless swaj ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray 1 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



X. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance setl 

Scenes, never, never, to return I 
Scenes* if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro': 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY, 

AN ODE. 
I. 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear 

I sit me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er, 
But with the closing tomb \ 

II. 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end 's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 

III. 

How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all- forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Bi-side his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Si) 



The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and ioys 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest I 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh I enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown I 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 

The fears all, the tears all, 

Of dim-declining age! 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 
I. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 



II. 



" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,' 7 * 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

III. 

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

Thi3 one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny 

Assist me to rfsign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. A#*** s ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock theiruseful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

ways : 

What A**** in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 

I ween. 



ir. 



November chill blaws loud wi* angry sugh ; 

The short'viing winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their re* 
pose : 

* Dr. Young. 



40 



BURNS' 



The {-oil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and restto spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' [glee. 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his 
toil. 



IV. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, [e'e, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a brav? new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship 
be. 



V. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 

The social hours, swift-wing'd unnotie'd 

fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ;- 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The yoimkers a' are warned to obey ; 

" An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
play : 



POEMS, 

An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway \ 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night i 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !" 

VII. 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her ham?. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

VIII. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. [joy. 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave ; 
W r eel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected 
like the lave. 



IX. 



O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In others arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale." 



X. 



Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and 
truth ! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth r 



BUHNS> 

Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 



XL 



.But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, [food: 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
The soupe their only Hawkie does aiford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

XII. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide • 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let tis ivorship God !" he says, with 
solemn air. 

XIII. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 

guise ; [aim : 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures 

rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 

Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures 
raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abrani was the friend of God on 
high ; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 



POEMS* 



41 



Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire ; 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV, 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; [name; 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped •, 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd 
by Heav'n's Gommand^. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternwi 
King, [prays : 

The saint, the father, and the husband 
Hope " springs exulting ori triumphant 
wing,"* 
That thus they all shall meet in future 
days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVIL 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of 
the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII, 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest 

* Pope's Windsor Forcvt, 



42 



BURNS' 

raven's clam'rous 



That He who stills the 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God:" 
And certcs, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be bless'd with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! [vent 

And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
From luxury's contagion, weak aud vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd Isle. 

XXI, 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward !) 
() never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 
But still the patriot, and the patriot lard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! , 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE, 
I. 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 



POEMS. 

One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 



II. 



" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou V 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

*' The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling*s pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man wtxs made to mourn, 

IV. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 



u Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair, 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

" A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly hlest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in evry land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 






BURNS' POEMS. 



43 



VII. 



* Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame • 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 



VIII. 

" See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 



IX. 

** If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,- 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 



X. 



" Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 



XI. 

" O death! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a bless'd relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn I" 



PRAYEE IN THE PROSPECT 



DEATH, 

I. 

O tfiou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps 1 must appear ! 

n. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

III. 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And listening to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Ox frailty stept aside, 
Do thou All-Good! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 



Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 
ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging 
rod. 



44 BURNS 7 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray : 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran ? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT 

THE FOLLOWING VERSES 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 
I. 

O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above ! 

I know thou wilt me hear : 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire— the mortal stroke, 

Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ! 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'fet the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 



POEMS. 



VI. 



When soon or late they rear.li that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n I 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below . 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath 1 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death 5 

But if 1 must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine! 



THE 

FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 

PSALM. 



O thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 



BURNS' POSMS. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
"Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 



45 



Before the mountains heavd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself, 

Arose at thy command; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou givstthe word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought I" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak/st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning fluw'r, 

In beauty's pride array 'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 






TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
IN APRIL 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wr* spreckled breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe to greet 

The purpling east. 



The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring w r oods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stilble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy shawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floiv'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driven, 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 
He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom 1 



TO RUIN. 
I. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fail I 
Thy cruel wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 



46 



BURNS' POEMS. 



With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low 'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbing cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay 1 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace I 



TO MISS 



WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S 
GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of tim© 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have 1 from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you J 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY — 1786. 



I i.ang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 
Than just a kind memento ; 



But how the subject-theme may gang, 
Let time and chance determine ; 

Perhaps it may turn out a sang 
Perhaos turn out a sermon. 

It 

Ye'll try the -world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : - 
But och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted J 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa* in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



V. 



Ay free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpened, slee inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
1 wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling 1 



_, 



BURNS' POEMS, 



47 



VII. 



To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent' 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To hand the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that ay be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause-^ 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences, 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random stingy 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor J 

XL 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed/ 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
&nd may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 



A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 

Our billie's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 

Wha dearly like a random-splore, 

Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 

For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petit ions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year. 

That's owre the sea, 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' q' druramock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea* 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 



48 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composin 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonailie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea 



BURNS' POEMS. 

billie / Ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 

And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

3ie her a Haggis ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairr 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my aim. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up with ready slight, 
Trenching jour gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Psil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maisl like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle shank a guid whip lash, 

His nieve a nit j 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legi, an' arms, an' heads will sued, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 



A DEDICATION. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them whs 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, 1 can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord, be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done ye% 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just— nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abus'd : 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
I Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
j It's naething but a milder feature, 

Of our poor, sinfu,' corrupt nature : 
j Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
I 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 



BURNS' 

Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion : 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
J'hy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hcpe, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a icinnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door: 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 
- graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
i'e'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
i maist forgat my dedication; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill). 
1 thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But Fse repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you, Sir — 



tk May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk,-' 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May K******'s far honouf'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till H*******'s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or peh, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o* his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, fad, mournful rites bestow !" 

1 will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's «miles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother f 



TO A LOUSE. 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, 
AT CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie 1 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
G 



ISO 



BURNS' POEMS. 



How dare ye set your fit upon her, 
Sae fine "a lady ! 

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 
On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haflTet squattlc ; 
Tbere ye may creep, and sprawl, and spratlle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'il no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

Q' Bliss's bonnet, 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and gray as onie grozet ; 
O for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na been surpvis'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae ivinks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice t ikin .' 

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And cv'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

I, 

Fdjna ! Scotia's darling .'■eat ! 

All bail thy palaces and tovv'rs, 
V here once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs .' 



From marking wildly-sratterM flow'ra, 
As on the banks of Ayr 1 strayM, 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
1 shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



II. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abude. 

III. 

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thon, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least a'arms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oftrepell'd the invader's shock. 



VT. 



With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

1 view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



51 



VII. 



Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n J who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grjra danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

VIII. 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a-monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour 'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 
ArRIL 1st, 1785. 

WfilLE briers and woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An* morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten^een we had a rockin. 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun an* jokin, 

Ye need na doubt; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about* 

There was ae sang^ amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
A' to -the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
Or Beattie's wark!" 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirhirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear'r, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 



Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 
He had ingine, 

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An* either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 

' Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, 1 should tell, 
Amaist as soon as 1 could spell, 
1 to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does well eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ! 
Whene'er my muse doe& on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sa#g ?" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin hammers. 

A set o* dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' namely in attire, 

May touch the Iteart. 



52 



BURNS-' POEMS. 



O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's my friend to be. 
If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends euovv, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 



I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill 1 like my fauts to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me* 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 



But, lo conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and servant 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL '21st, 178J. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pie ugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honesl-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 



There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware 

WV ane anither. 



The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear you crack. 



But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

Each aid the others', 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers 



Forjesketsair, wiih weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten- hours' bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 



The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
j She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
: Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 
This month ah' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
An' something sair." 



Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that rf hearty blaud. 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 



" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' heart? 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

Iu terms so friendly. 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly !" 



Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink, 

By J gyp VI! t-rose it*' 



BURNS' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak' proof; 
Bat I shall scribble down some blether 

J ust clean aff-loof. 



My worthy friend, ne'er grudge au' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesorne touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp : 

She's but a b-tch. 



She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg^ 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake any leg, 
As lang's 1 dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, . 

/, Rob, am here. 



Do ye envy the city Genl, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent* 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 
And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 



Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi* ruffl'd sark an' glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets afFare ta'en, 

As by he walks ? 

" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride ! " 

Were this the charter of our state, 

"On pain o* hell be rich an' great," 

Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 

But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed 



POEMS. 53 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

An' none but he /" 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
j The ragged followers of the Nine, 
;. Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 
In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light* 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere* 
Still closer knit in friendship's tie 

Each passing yean 



TO W. S ***** N- 



OCHILTREi:. 



May. 1785. 



I gat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart 1 thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe my coaxin' billie, 

Your ilatterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

On my poor Musie; 
Tho' in sic phrasin' terms ye've penn'd it 

I scarce excuse > e. 

My senses wad be in a creel 
Should 1 but dare a hope to speel 
Wi' Allan* or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o'fam^; 
Or tergusson, tlie writer-chiel 

A deathle:s name. 



54 



BURNS' POEMS* 



(0 Fergtisson! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye Eubrugh Gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye Waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my deed, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 



Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise* 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 



Th' Tllissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine^ 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 



We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 



At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 



O, Sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro* the braes the cushat croods 
With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day! 

O Nature! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night t 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel, he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think laug; 
O sweet ! to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-'shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the bu6y, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither !" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies : 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 
In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New-Light, 9 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
Maist like to fight. 
• See note, p. 18. 






. 



BURNS' 



In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic. talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, 

Like you or me* 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i* their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 
An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 
That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An* some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hangM an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
The lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ve'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; 



POEMS. 55 

Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite, 

To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd 0:1 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the Iouns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. R******, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude, ready-witted, R******^ 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin, 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin , 

Straught to auld Nick's, 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked drucken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro*. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare 't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives 't afF their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

* A certain humorous dream of his was then making 
ft noise in the country-side 



56 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A* that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon savgi* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 



Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
nly muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel abonnie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill! 
I'd better gane an' sair'd the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 
A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 



The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some anld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

t scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, uiest year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For 't in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 
Twas neither biokerj wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro* the feathers ; 
An' baitb a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers J 

• A tOHg he had prOQlilCfl tlte Author. 



It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time 's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN/ 

A BALLAD. 

I. 

There was three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

II. 

They took a plough and plough 'd him dowu. 

Put clods upon his head, 
Aud they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

An i so.e surprised them all. • 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 



V. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild. 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue fur forgerie. 

Tli'a is partly composed on the plan of an o'.d fan 



, kn wu t>y tiie same name. 






BURNS' POEMS. 



57 



VIII. 



They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim, 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the floor, 
To work him farther wo, 

And still, as signs of life appear'd, 
They toss'd him to ffUfa&o. 



XI. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 



XII. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 



XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 



XIV. 

'Twill make a man forget his wo ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FRAGMENT. 



Tune.—" Gillicrankie.' 



When Guilford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 



II. 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

III. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New- York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang 's he dough t, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



V. 



Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a,' man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

H 



58 



BURNS' POEMS. 



VI. 



Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 

VII. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi 7 loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

VI I. 

Bshind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid in law man. 



SONG. 



Tone.—" Corn rigs arc bonnie.* 



It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early ; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 



II. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I kenn't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

III. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear; 

1 hae been happy thinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs, an' barley rigs. 
An' corn rigs are bonnie : 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the Has wi' Annie. 



SONG, 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune " I had a horse, I had naemair." 

1. 

Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather; 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; [night, 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 

To muse upon my charmer. 

II. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 
The path of man to shun it ; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

ii r. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



SONG. 

Tune.—" My Nannie, O." 
I. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O, 



II. 



The westlin wind blaw r s loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

* Originally, Stinchar. 



III. 




My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she' s bonnie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, , 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

V. 

A country lad is my degree, 
An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

VII. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O I 

Green grow the I'ashes, Of 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent among the lasses, O ! 

I. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry ban*, 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green groin, fye 



60 



BURNS' POEMS. 



II. 



The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

Green grow, fyc. 

I'll. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, fyc. 

IV. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'er nought but senseless asses, O : 

The wisest man the warP e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, Sfc. 

y. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, fyc. 



SONG. 

Tune.— *' Jockey's Grey Brceki." 
I. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And maun I still on Menie t doat, 
And hear the scorn that's in her e'e? 

For it's jet, jet black, an it's like a hawk, 
An' it wirina let a body be! 

II. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the Untwhite sing. 

And maun I still, 8fc. 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by agentleman 
In Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. 
i Mrnif \* the common abbreviation of Mariamne. 



III. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the ten tie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me' s a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I stilt, fyc. 

TV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun 1 still, Sfc. 



V. 



The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, fyc. 



VI. 



And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A wo-worn ghaist 1 hameward glide. 

And maun 1 still, fyc. 

vT T . 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be.* 



SONG. 



Tune.—" Itoslin Castle. 1 



The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 

• We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of 
our bard, and more especially those printed under his own 
direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chocu-S which 
is not of his own composition, should be attached to these 
fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts t/ie train of senti- 
ment which they excite. E. 



BURNS' POEMS- 



61 



The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 



lfc 



The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

III. 

'Tis not the surging billows roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



SONG. 

Tune.—" Gilderoy." 
I. 

From thee, Eliza, 1 must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ; 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 



But the last throb that leaves my heart, 
While death stands victor by, 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
And thine that latest sigh ! 



THE FAREWELL 

TO TUB 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tuite.— " Good night and joy be wi' you a' !" 
I. 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye I 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten 'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 



II. 



Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light: 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wearl 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 



62 



SONG. 



Tune.—'* Prepare, my dear brethren, to the Tavern 
let's fly." 



BURNS' POEMS. 

WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 



No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 



II. 



The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

III. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Croivn how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

IV. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



V. 



JjB once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
™A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 

But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 
stairs, 

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," * — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith 1 agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with 

care. 

# Young's Night Thoughts. 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, — 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is bat a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dunce, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 



BURWS* POEMS. 



63 



Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OF . 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace ! 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTR OPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tor t'ring fiends,) 
* Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ! 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 
clear, 
Expires in. rags, unknown, and goes to 
Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS 
HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD I 

But now his radiant course is run, 

For Matthev/'s course -was bright; 
His sod was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless, Heav'nly Light ! 

O death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee haine to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers I 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He's gane for ever I 



64 



Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals 
Ye .fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the qyagmire'reels, 

. Pair for his sake. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 

And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far. warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 
Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 
Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies, bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around '. 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart ; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy prais. 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a sta'n, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 

OP 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 
On every blooming tree, 



BTTBNS' POEMS. 



65 



And 6preails her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebiis cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison„strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been j 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest I) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poets wail 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns th* 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his 

cell.— 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, [snug. 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child— the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
yampyre booksellers drain himjto the heart, 
And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics— appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. 
I 



66 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Till fled each hope that once his bosom lir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, . 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 
rage! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : [serve, 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
JThey only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
.And just conclude that "fools are fortune's 

care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 
In equanimity they never dwell, [brain 5 

By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r 1 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless sides his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 

death ! 



LAMENT 



JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 
By fits the sun's departing beam 

Look'd on the fading yellow woods 
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: 



Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 
Laden with years and meikle pain, 

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
\ few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a beuding aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ? 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 



.. 



BURNS 9 



In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

* O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo I 
O ! had 1 met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low 1 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for rae I 



LINES 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 
OF WHITEFOORD, BART., 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, sa\e thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear's t, 
To hee thisvotive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 






TAM O' SHANTER. 



A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 



POEMS. 6 j 

While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
( Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

O Tarn/ had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blelluin ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober, 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That eVry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthened sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 



68 



BURNS' 



But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white— then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. — • 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he talcs the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guidblue bonnet : 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
W hilts glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Auoway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
*VY tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
IV i' usquabae we'll face the devil !— 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She vcntiir'd forward on the light; 
And, vow ! Turn saw an unco sight ! 



POEMS. 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge : 

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish eantraip slight, 

Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 

By which heroic Tarn was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn I had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Xhir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
J wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and dro'l, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I Avonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 



BURNS' POEMS. 



69 



Her cuttie sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tbo' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegitber. 
And roars out, " W'eel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, . 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
W T hen, " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony £n eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'il get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane * of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wl' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — ■ 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump,. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed : 

* It is a well-known fact that witclies, or any evil spirits, 
power to follow a poor wight any farther than the 
of the next running stream. — It may be proper like- 
wise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he 
falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going 
forward, there is much more hazard in turning liar*fc« 



Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder- aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield* 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest, 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS 
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH 
SHlRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood 
.Or tunes Eblian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-approving mind. 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 



70 



BURNS' POEMS. 



While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

S i long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won 5 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS, 



%c. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter • * * * in death does sleep ; 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNIE. 

Hie jacet wse Johnie. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murdei'd Johnie ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 

For said he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Htre lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 



side.' 



FOR R. A. Esq. 



Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name 
(For none that knew hirn need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May! be sav'd or damn'd! 



Goldsmith. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 
Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by 1 
But with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Vet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ' 



Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



71 



ON THE LATE 



CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS, 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT 
KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it: 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll pren 1 it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And vow! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, * 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin 
At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'enthe — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,! 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A. broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 
+ Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and 
W eapons, 



Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o'thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, 
PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR 

Beauteous rosebud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may 'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom, blushing still with dew I 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 



BURNS' POEM 



But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung: 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast ; 
Tb ere Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE 

HUMBLE PETITION 

OF 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 
THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 
Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 

* Bruar Fall* in Athole are exceedingly picturesque 
nftd beautiful ; but their effect is much impaired by the 
want of trees and shrubs. I 



Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 
Your humble Slave complain, 

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 
In flaming summer-pride, 

Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 
And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet B**** came by, 
That, to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd ine ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir: 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 



BURNS' POEMS- 



73 



And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care: 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms, 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-pending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may, old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

The social flowing glasses, 
To grace be — " A thole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 
IN LOCH-TURIT. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wav?, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too toon, your fears I trace. 



Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But, man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN VUTH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN THE PARLOUR OP THE INN AT KENMOBE, 
TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; [hills, 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native 

taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering inthemoontidebeam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell 
K 



74 



BURNS' 



The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught 

lye, 

And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ,* 
Here ^heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon matt. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
"Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream 

resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, [scends, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
Ahd viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends, 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 
Still thro the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caldron boils— 



ON THE BIRTH 



POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 



POEMS, 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourished, rooted fast, 
Fair on the summer morn : 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stern 
Arise to deck our land ! 



THE WHISTLE, 
A BALLAD. 






A s the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, 
I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of Denmark, 
when she came to Scotland, with our James the Sixth 
there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic sta> 
ture and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bac- 
chus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which at the com- 
mencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever 
was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by 
the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as 
a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Co- 
penhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of 
the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots 
Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or 
else of acknowledging their inferiority. — After many over- 
throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encoun- 
tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of 
the present woithy baronet of that name ; who, after three 
days' and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after- 
wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel 
who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday, the 
16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was 
once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the 
present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Hobert Riddel, 
Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative 
of Walter Riddle, who won the Whistle, and in whose 
family it had continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq. 
of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir 
Hobert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won 
honours of the field. 



I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 



': 



BURNS' 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king, [" D g- 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall— 
f This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 

get o'er, [more !" 

And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne/er see me 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd what champions 

fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 

gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains and all of his 

blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear 

of flaw; [law; 

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and 

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 

And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 

oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

° By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel 

replies, 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
Fll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,t 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 

o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend, [friend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 

field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 



* ,See Ossian's Carrie thura. 
t See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



POEMS. 75 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes re- 
pair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known 
to fame, 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, 
lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 

were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 
core, [forlorn, 

And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 
night, 
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end; [tend? 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in 
light ; [knight. 

So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink :— 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 

shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day I" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF POETRY, 



EXTRACTED 



FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS; 



8(E>»(BB» 



COMPOSED FOR THE MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OF MESSRS. THOMSON AND JOHNSON; 
WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET* 
AULD NEEBOR 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, 1 doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 
An' gilit's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin the words to gar them clink ; [drink, 

Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 



• TMl ia infixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub 
Hshedat Kiln ornock, 1789. 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, 
On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 

The Zephyr wantoned round the bean, 
And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 






BURNS' POEMS. 



77 



In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! deir departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ! 
That sacred hour can 1 forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 



Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, 
green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west, 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear, 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st '.hou the groans that rend his breast ? 



LINES ON 
AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer— an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As 1 look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



78 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

\ watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
fhe gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman- 
Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON A YOUNG LADY, 



Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clack- 
mannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in 
Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 

blooming fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 

Devon, [Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to re- 
new. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that 
seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flaws. 



CASTLE GORDON. 



I. 



Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks, by Castle Gordon. 

II. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Ill 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle Gordon.* 



NAE-BODY. 

1 hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-body; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to nae-body ; 

I hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 



♦ These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Mora^ 
a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae-body ; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 



79 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.* 

Tone.—" I am a man unmarried." 

O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tal lal de ral, %c. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

* This was our Poet's first attempt. 



'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ; 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

Tal lal de raL 



INSCRIPTION 
TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 
Born September 5th, 1751 - Died, 16th October 1774* 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
"No storied urn nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro 
the vale ; [morning, 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the 
green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can 

seem fair 
While the lingering moments are number'd 
by care ? [singing, 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their 
malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills and his right ate 
these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I 
can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, fur- 
lorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I 
mourn : [trial, 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ! 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

When Nature her great master-piece design'd, 
And fram'd her last best work the human 
mind, 



80 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 

She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their 

birth : 
Each prudent cifa warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires [squires ; 
Makes a material for mere knights and 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave 

designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very 

good ; 
But e'er she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; [ter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scat- 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it— a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd— and there the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor 

work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 
Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never fives— tho' humbly takes enough ; 



The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bless on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon J should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd— to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 
race : [grace ; 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful 

nine — 
Heaven's ! should the branded character be 
mine! [fl.>ws, 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublime. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words. should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill son; 

ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift 
I trust meantime my boon Is in thy gift : 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublin;- 
er flight.* 

* This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintry. 
tt is not equal to the second ; but it contains too much of 
the characteristic vigour of its author to be suppressed. 
A little more knowledge of natural history, or of chemis- 
try, was wanted to enable him to execute the original 
, conception correctly. ' 



BURNS* POEMS. 



SI 






FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HO^i. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blead their black and 
their white ; 

How genius, the illustrious father of fiction, 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — 

I sing : If these mortals, the critics, should 
bustle, 

I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 



But now for a Patron, whose name and 
whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Vet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 

so strong, [wrong ; 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his 

crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good 

and his evil, 
All in all he's a problc m must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, 

eats up its neighbours : 
i Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture 

will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have 

miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is'a science defies definitions. 



Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more 

in the wind, 
As byonedi-unken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 



But such is the flaw," or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to bro- 
ther, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the 
other. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o* sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

* Mr. Heron, author of tho History of Scotland, and 
of various oiher works. 
L 



82 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 
I need na vaunt, 

But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 
Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELUSLAND, ON 
NEW-YEAK-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city [pity : 

That queens it o er our taste — the more 's the 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know ? to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 

" think !" 



Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless 

rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 
brow, [now ! 

And humbly begs you '11 mind the important — 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many 

favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO, 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplish'd Burne 
low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can 1 forget? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summers pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery 
shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves 

Ye cease to charm— Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix d with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you 1 fly, ye with my soul accord. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



83 



Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our eartb, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 






IMITATION 



OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 



«By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

• came— 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
Y?e dare na weel say 't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in 
the yerd : [dame- 

It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' 1 tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same- 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene — a field of battle j time of the day — evening; 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army are 
supposed to join in the folloiving Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, 
tender ties, 
Our race of existence is run I 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [foe, 

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark I 

He falls in the blase of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in 
our hands, 

Our King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands ? 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle 
on her Benefit-Night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty thiugs, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending 
storm. — 

Our second Right — but needless here is 

caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; [riot ; 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled ; [bred- 

No w, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
Most justly think (and we are much the 

gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, [nearest, 

That right to fluttering female hearts tie 



F4 



Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 

Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration I 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

airs, 
Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
vVho is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with con- 
stitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



ADDRESS, 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit-night De- 
cember, 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than 

ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing bet- 
ter ; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And lust, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes, 
" I know your bent— these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you— but Miss, I own 1 have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sen- 
tence, 
House from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repen- 
tance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eye- 
ing, 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made for 
crying ? 

I'll laugh, that's poz— nay more, the world 
shall know it; 

And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 



BURNS' POEMS. 

I also think — so may I be a bride ! 

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 



Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldaur 

witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself; 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS. 



THE LEA RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I'were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo , 

At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 
Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



85 



Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 
It maks my heart sae cheery, O, 

To meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie, O. 






TO MARY. 

Tune.—" Ewe-bughts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Iudies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before 1 leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time !* 






MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never to'ed a dearer, 

And niest my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

* This Song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his co' I 
lection. It deserves, however, to be preserved. E 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

G saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee, 

The Diel he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune.— Catharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams arounu, 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

1 clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 



86 



BURNS' POEMS, 



But Oh! fell death's untimely frost, 
That nipt iny flower sae early ! 

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

(> pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yoD 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men ; [kine, 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the 

lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a Taird 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house 

and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds 1 must hide that will soon be my 

dead 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
1 wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my 

breast. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 
me ! [bliss, 

O, how past descriving had then been my 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 
7/'/, ha, the wooing o't, 

On blythe yule night when we were fou, 
Jla, ha, the wooing o't, 



Maggie coost her head fu' high, 

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the ivooing o't» 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray : 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, fyc. 



Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ?' 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, fyc. 



How it comes let doctors tel 1 , 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things! 

Ha, ha, fyc. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, 'fyc, 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, $c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 

Ha, ha, fyc. 



SONG. 



Tune. — " 1 had a horse." 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; ' 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An' 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 



BURNS' POEMS. 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't; 
Fie, fie on silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, 8?c. 



87 



Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, fyc. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, 8$c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The siHie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But. there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 
And loud the tempest's roar ; 

A waefuZ-wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 
Lord Gregory, ope thy door 



An exile frae her father's ha', 
And a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pity on me shaw, 
If love it may na be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove. 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim seel 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



MARY MORISON. 

Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



88 



BUHNS> POEMS. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 



Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- 
ing ; 
It was na the blast brought the tear to my 
e'e : 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slum- 
bers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But dying believe that my Willie's my ain ! 



THE SAME, 

As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame, 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e. 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum- 
bers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

lhd oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving 
main ! 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. 



Our Poet, with his usual judgment, adopted sotne of 
these alterations, and rejected others. The last 
edition is as follows : 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 
parting, 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slum- 
bers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 
Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring 
main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
ain. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white 
wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd i* 
wide ; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by 
his side, 
Never to rise again, Oh !— 



BURNS' POEMS. 



91 



And ay she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sang sae merrilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 



But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 



Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 



As in the bosom o' the stream, 
The moon beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 



But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o love, 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, 1 lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi 7 me ? 



At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 



Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

Ard love was ay between them twa. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune— « Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon-wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



SONG. 

To the same Tune. 

Had I a ca\e on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
There would I weep my woes, £roar : 

There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there ! 



SONG. 

Tune. — " Allan Water." 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi;* 

* A mountain west of Strath Allan, 3,009 feet high. 



92 BURNS' 

The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 
The yellow corn was waving ready : 

I listen'd to a lover's sang, 
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 

And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 



The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO 
YOU, MY LAD. 



O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 



But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, fyc. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, 8fc. 

\y vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle 8fc. 



m 



POEMS. 

SONG. 

Tune.—" The mucking o' Geordie's byre.** 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties. 
They never wi' her can compare: 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi 7 the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, fyc. 

The rose-bud 's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, 8fc. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, - 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, fyc. 



Her voice is the song of the morning 
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, fyc. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, Sfc. 



SONG. 



An 



Cauld Kail. 1 



Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

And I shall spurn as vilest dust 
The warld's wealth and grandeur: 



BURNS' 

And do I hear my Jeanie own, 
That equal transports move her ? 

I ask for dearest life alone 
That 1 may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
r^nd on thy lips I seal my vow, 
- And break it shall I naver. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Dainty Davie, dairtty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, fyc. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me, fyc. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 



SONG. 



Tune.—" Oran Gaoil." 



Bemold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Scver'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has wili'd, and we must part. 



POEMS. Q3 

I'll often greet this surging swell, 
Yon distant isle will often hail : 

" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea- fowl round me cry, 
A cross the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



SONG. 

Tune.—" Pee him Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should 

us sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay— 1 maun see 

thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Th.ou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is 

breaking. 
Soon my weary een I'll close— Never mair to 

waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' 1 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne 1 



For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae ran about the braes, 

And pu't the gowans fine ■ 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 



9* 



BURNS' POEMS. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waugbt, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 



BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die 1 



FAIR JENNY. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father 1" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morn- 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? [ing, 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would 1 hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



SONG. 

Tune.—" The Collier's Dochter." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed, 

To dote upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



SONG. 

Tune — " The Quaker's wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish :' 

Tho* despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Take away these rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 



What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : . 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



SONG. 



Tune. — " Jo Janet." 



Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 



" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy V 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so, good b'ye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 
My last hour I'm near it : 

When you lay me in the dust 
Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

M I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



SONG. 



Air — " The Sutor's Doehter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, cauna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE, 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale ; 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall 

The dewy star of <jve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the wcodlark in the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music— and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear to lore and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 



A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scotish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 



96 



BURNS' POEMS. 



So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

•But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

)r pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



SONG. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune.—" O'er the Hills," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe 1 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are ay with him that 7 s far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, fyc. 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power ; 
As the storms the forests tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, fyc. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet: 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, Sfc. 



T«NE.— " Ca' the Yowcs to the Knowes.' 



Ca 7 the yowes to the knowes, 
Co 7 them whare the heather grows 
Ca 7 them whare the burnie rows, 
My bonnic dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, Sfc. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca 7 the, fyc. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca 7 the, fyc. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca 7 the, $c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca 7 the, 4-c. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A\ 

Tune._" Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 






BURNS' POEMS. 



97 



Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a\ 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ! 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 



(Quasi dicat Phillis.) 

Tune.-" When she cam ben she bobbit. M 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What sayi She, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forget, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

Z> 
O had 1 ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SONG. 

Tone.-" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. 1 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 



CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widoiv'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh, fyc. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh, fyc. 



SONG. 

Tune.—" Duncan Gray.'* 

Let not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove 1 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant while we can— 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS.. 

Tune.-" Deiltak the Vfsa&. H 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, [hire 

Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy: 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly strr.y. 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flow r er ; 

The lav 'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o'joy, [<Iay. 

While the sun and thou arise to bless the 

N 



.93 



BURNS' 



Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 
When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic dthe day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ;, 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 



SONG. 

Tonb.— " My Lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, . 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings- 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw- 



POEMS. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild- wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtiers' gems may witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



SONG, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE, 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, 
The youthful charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youtliful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people, you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 

The glorious sun began to rise, 

Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely ivas she, fyc. 



\ 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS 

Tune.—" Kothcmurchie's Rant." 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 



BURNS' POEMS, 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie wi', §c. 



99 



And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', fyc. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', fyc. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

O Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 



SONG. k 

Tune.—" Nancy's to the Greenwood," Sec. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me : 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



DUET. 



T u ne.-« 1 he Sow's Tail." 



he— O Philly, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

she — O Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers 
above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

he-— As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

she — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

he— The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

she— The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

he — The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

she — The woodbine in the dewy weet 

When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

he— Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may 

win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up insane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

she— What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy* 



1O0 



BURjNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 



Tune.—" Lumps o' Pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi"' mair, 
Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scotish 
sang. 

whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome 

Thought ; 
But man is a soger, and life is a faugbt : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my 

pouch, 
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 
her way ; [gae : 

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 

Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, 
or pain, 

My warst word is—" Welcome, and welcome 
a^ain I" 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY 
KATY? 

Tune.— m Roy's wife." 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my* aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 1 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, fyc. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
Rut not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, §c. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune.—" There'll never be peace." &c. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes, [shaw ; 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they 

blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 

lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray -breaking 

dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and 

gray, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ; 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



101 






For a* that, and a' that, 
His riband, star, and a' that, 

The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that, 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



SONG. 



Tu N £.— Craigie-burn-wood. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing : 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If" thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



SONG. 

Tune—-" Let me in this ae Night." 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 
For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 



CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, fyc. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, 8$c. 



HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain < 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ancefor a' this ae night, 

I winna let you m,jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, tyc. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo, 
I tell you now, fye. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo, 
J tell you now, fyc. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

Tune — " Where'll honnie Ann lie." Or, " Loch-Erocb 
Side." 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark stay 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 



102 



BURNS' POEMS. 



A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' wo could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune — "Ay wakin O." 
CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight, 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish? 

Long, fyc. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, 8$c. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, 8cc. 



SONG. 

Tune— u Humours of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon, [perfume, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 

breckan, [broom. 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 



| Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 

! unseen : [flowers, 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 



gay sunny 



Tho' rich is the breeze in their 
valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, [slave ! 

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, [Jean. 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 



SONG. 

Tune.—" Laddie, lie near me." 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind 

us 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 

kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH 
SONG. 

Tune. — " John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 
The trembling dove thus flies, 

To shun impelling ruin 
A while her piniorjs tries 



BURNS' POEMS, 



103 



Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



SONG. 

Tune.— " Deil tak the Wars." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures ? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 



But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown, 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 






SONG. 

Tune.- This is no my ain House. 

CHORUS. 

O this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

O iceel ken I my ain lassie, 
Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, §c. 



She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, fyc. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light are lovers' een, 

When kind love is in the e'e, 

O this is no, fyc. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 

It may escape the learned clerks ; 

But weel the watching lover marks 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 

O this is no, fyc. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

SCOTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

A nd climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care* 






101 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leaguM my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ? 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair,' 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTISH SONG. 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear I 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling bum, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and grief? alike resign. 



WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of his 
Poems presented to a Lady, whom he had often 
celebrated under the name of Chloris. 

Tis Friendship's pledge, my young,fair Friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower : 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in stove, 

Tlr cio; f oris nf the mind I 



Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part j 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest 
These joys could he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune. — " Let me in this ac night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, ljve. 

CHORUS. 

O wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs ivith mine, love. 

Around rae scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O ivert, Sfc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, fyc. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, 8$c. 



SCOTISH BALLAD. 

Tune — "The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May abraw wooer cam down the lar.j 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
1 said there was naething 1 hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe 

me, 
The deuce gac wi'm, to believe me. 



BURNS' POEMS 



105 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A. weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur 

offers- 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, 

could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! 1 could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But ow re my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't 
feet, [swearin, ' 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, ' 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
1 think I maun wed him to-morrow, to mor- 
row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune.— « Balinamona ora" 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for 

a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice 
yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 
Then hey, $c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, [ S est ; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie 
imprest, 

The langer ye hae them— the mair they're 
carest. 
Then hey, fyc. 



SONG. 



FRAGMENT. - 

Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ! 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie 2 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



Tune.— « Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney." 

CHORUS. 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, $c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, Sfc. 
O 



10(5 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, fyc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 



SONG. 



Tune.—" Rothermurchie's Rant.' 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ? w 
Fairest maid, fyc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, fyc. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, fyc. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, fyc. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, fyc. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns theburnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 
LEAVE ME? 

Tune — « An Gilledubh ciardhubh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 



Tune. 



Morag. 



Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Like winter on me seizes, 
Since my young Highland Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 



BURNS' 

Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithly singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 

Tune.—" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly waudering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN 

Tune.—" Druimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
"Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 



POEMS. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



107 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she. 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Em, 
And blitLe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, 8$c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn • 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, fyc. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon alee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blithe, fyc. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, ^c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 



108 



BURNS' POEMS. 



She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 



Tune. 



N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny. 



Where braving angry winter's storms-, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

Tune — " Inveroald's Reel." 



O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would nae been sae shy ; 

For laik 0' gear ye lightly me, 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak ua, but gaed by like stoure 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I lvae, 8fc. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 



That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae, fyc. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tiblie, I hae, 8$c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart 

If that he want the yellow dirt, 

Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 

And answer him fu' dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, $c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 

Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 

Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 

Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae, fyc , 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, $c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray 1 



BURNS' POEMS. 



109 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tome. — " Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er su*mmer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more, — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, 1 live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss,— it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are 
brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 
in vain : 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has 
worn; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is 
gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darkened 
how pain'd ! [give, 

This life's not worth having with all it can 

For something beyond it poor man sure must 
live. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 



Tune. — " My love is lost to xne. 



O, Were I on Parnassus' hill 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 



That I might catch poetic skill, 
To sing how dear I love thee. 

But Nith maun be my muse's well, 

My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 

On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 
And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay < 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then— and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Tune. — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings , 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 



110 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 

And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'li flourish fresh and fair; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle, 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 

O, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob a^d Allan cam to see ; 

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're na that fou, 
But just a drappie in our ce ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay we 'll taste the barley bree, 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are na fou, fyc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, fyc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are na fou, fyc. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips, like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her lienving bosom, lily-white ;— 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 



She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune.—" Robie Dona Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Commins ance had high command : 
When shall 1 see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my .jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But handin hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len^ 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 
But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 



. 



BURNS' POEMS, 



in 



I'm thinkin, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might raak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o* Prummeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd 1 maun tak him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 



The last Halloween 1 was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o* my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 



Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi'maenor me. 



THEN GUIDW1FE COUNT THE 
LAWIN. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the 

lawin, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a 

coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, fyc 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, fyc. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
WI' AN AULD MAN? 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 
man ? [minnie 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, fyc. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He's doylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is 
frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he 

cankers, 

I never can please him, do a' that I can : 

tie's peevish and jealous of a' the young 

fellows : 

O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man I 

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break hiin, [pan. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 



112 



BURNS' 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully 1 look and languish 
In thatbonnie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, fye. 



G, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! 

Tune.—" The Moudiewort." 

An O,for ane and twenty, Tam 1 
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun' 

And then comes ane and twenty, Tam ! 

An O,for ane, fyc. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I needna spier, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An O, for ane <8fc. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An O,for ane, fyc. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

<) leeze me on mj spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 



POEMS. 

On ilka hand the burnles trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheeL 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For &.' the pride of a* the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ; 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

" It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie but, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver'« fire." 

For Johnie o' the Busky-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
Butblithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 



I 



BURNS' 






Thou for thine may choose me ; 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die. 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She *s fair and fause that causes my smart, 

1 lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And 1 may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Naeferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel form 's faun to thy share, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' 
the glen, [den, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming 
forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 

hills, 
Far mark'd wi' the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 
below, [blow ; 

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 
me. 



POEMS. 115 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creature's joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

1 adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



1 1 6 BURNS' 

LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE? 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

£ reign in Jeanie's bosom. 



Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 



Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me s?,fe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake of somebody ! 



POEMS. 

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 
DEATH OF HER SON. 

Tune.—" Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, aias ! 

And ay the saut tear blins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to theo, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thin • <> thee. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As -the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 
And dear, fyc. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them ; 

And here's to them, we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to,fyc. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'euin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : "* 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



117 



How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

B ut gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That 1 wad tent and shelter there. 

O, sweet is she in yon town, 
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ! 

A fairer than's in yon town, 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 
And suffering T am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air 

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart gbaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of wo, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



COPY 
OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLEK, 

With the present of the Bard's Picture. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected* 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 



118 BURNS' 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a 
throne ; 
My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 
son, 
That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K— G— I most heartily 
join, 
The Q— , and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of thisepocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty trucel we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
eye, 
And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you. like the star that athwart gilds the 
sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune.—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was 
young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
it good. 



POEMS 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly 
swore,— 
'* Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue i" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rust- 
ling corn ? 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and 
the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd 
the land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
vail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 
tell. 

The Chameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 
free, 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 
Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
them always 



BURNS* POEMS, 



119 



THE following Poem was written to a Gentle- 
man, who had sent him a Newspaper, and 
offered to continue it free of Expense. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? 
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off; 
Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 
Or if the Swede, before he halt, 
Would play anither Charles the twalt : 
If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 
How cut- throat Prussian blades werehingin, 
How libbet Italy was singin ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame, 
In Britain's court kept up the game : 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 
Or if bare a— s yet were tax'd ; 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, 
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser, 
A' this and mair I never heard of; 
And but for you I might despaired of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray, a' guid things may attend you. 

EUisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
n chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
R rae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 
Mid a' thy favours! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 



And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 



In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
W ee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang^ Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 



But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches: 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 



In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A riv^l place ? 



Yes ! there is ane — a Scotish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needns jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou 's for ever. 



Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twiaes, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 



In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 



Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



120 



ON THE 

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

Between the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man V* 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin-red ran mony a shengh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see tho cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'dand push'd, and blude outgush'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa', man : 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles : 

They hack'd and hash'd, while broad 

swords clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and 

smash'd, 
Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

II O how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 
The chase gaed frae the north, man : 

I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony ahuntit, poor red-coat, 
For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 

N i' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
Tho Angus Lads had nae good will 

heir neebors' blood to spill ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 
But mony bade the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MKS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer, 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 

And join with me a-moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

" The passing moment 's all we rest on V 

Rest on — for what? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

| A few days may — a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries, 

* And many a message from the skiea 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



121 






Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends ; 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

( A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard : 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smel- 
lie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural His- 
tory, and Member of the Antiquarian and 
Royal Societies of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving- 
night, [thatch'd, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild staring, 
A head for thought profound and clear, tin- 

niateh'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION for an Altar to 
Independence, at Kerroughtry, the Seat of Mr. 
Heron; written in Summer, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resigned ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. 

OF GLEN RIDDEL. APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- 
dant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 



How can ye charm, ye flow'rs with all your 
dyes? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can 1 to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 

ON A. 

LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 

How pale is that check where the rouge 

lately glisten'd ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 

tir'd, [ten'd ! 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From friendship and dearest affection re- 
moved ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 
Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, 1 call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear: 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly 

flower, [weed ; 

We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 

For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the 

rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 
Q 



122 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor 
of the Windows, Carriages, fyc. to each Far- 
mer, ordering him to send a signed List of his 
Hoi^ses, Servants, Wheel-Carriages, fyc, and 
whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, 
and what Children they had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to talc mv aith. 



Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. ' 
My hand afore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand a hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft hae borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur a hin, a. guid gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely, 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
1 on the questions tairge them tightly. 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho* scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 



I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation '. 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than well contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic 



Robert Burnj*. 



Wonsgkl, 25M, Feb. 1786. 



SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will; 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Von palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should knov 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, 8fc. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I love my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
1 know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, S;c. 



I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



123 



For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen,8fc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O I 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie, O ! 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS. 's BIRTHDAY, 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
What have 1 done of all the year , 
To bear this hated doom severe 1 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me ; 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoie'd in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

Oh yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a' to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

The desart were a paradise, 
If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 



Or werci monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 

The brightest jewel in my crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY* , DUMFRIES; 

With Books which the Bard presented her, 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



SONNET, written on the 25th of January, 1T93, 
the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing^ 
Thrush sing in a morning Walk. 



° 



Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious 
heart, [part, 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day I 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 

skies ! 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 

What wealth could never give nor take away I 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Haayen bestowed, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, to Mr. S**E, on refusing to 
dine with him, after having been promised the 
first of Company, and the first of Cookery ; 
17th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



124 



BURNS' POEMS, 



To Mr. S* *E, with a Present of a Dozen oj 
Porter. 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S * * e were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS 



Tone " Push about the Jorum." 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
fire we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rail, §c. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, fyc. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, %c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King,' 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King.' 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR 
OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 17y6. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one f I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear 't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've beenlicket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart I 
'Tis thine to pitv and forgive. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



125 



POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE ±*EYSTER, 
DUMFRIES, 1795. 

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve.: 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's off like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First showing; us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

P»ut lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mfcny a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like rucking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
T throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 
• 
O' a' the num'rous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' J 

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ach ! 



SONG. 



TUNE.- 



Morag" 



O wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 






126 



BURNS' 



O that's the lassie o' my hearty 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Ere while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O that's, $c. 

Jf thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted ; 
And thou art all delighted. 
that's, frc. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 
But hef thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted. — 
O thufs, ifc. 



SONG. 

Jockey's ta en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain . 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
IMiirht charm 'he. f'rst of human kind. 



POEMS. 

I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art,— 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ,• 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay! 
The tender thriil, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN in a Wrapper enclosing a Letter to 
Capt. Grose, to be left with Mr. Cardonnel, 
Antiquarian. 

Tune. — " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo, fy ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, if ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ': 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies 1 

Igo, if ago, 
And eaten like a weather-haggis? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, if ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, if ago, 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please trausmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, if ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, if ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, if ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 






BURNS' 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 
OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou 01 b of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth : 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 
Amen I 



To my dear and much honoured Friend, 
Mrs. Dunlop, ofDunlop. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 



Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well I 



w 

POEMS. 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys ; 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of wo. 



127 



A VERSE composed and repeated by Burns to 
The Master of the House, on taking leave at a 
Place in the Highlands, where he had been 
hospitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin, 
Fare thee weel before 1 gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare early roamiDg, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First inthrali'd this heart o' mine, 

There the safest sweets enjoying,— 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyr.e ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever, 
Ye hae render'd moments dear 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O, how severe .' 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me J 

Could I think I did deserve it, 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 



SELECTED FROM 



IP IB IB IBIBILBQUIBS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS ; 



FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



Auld cliuckie Reekie's* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnisht crost, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 
Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 
Willie's awa ! 

II. 

O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa ! 

III. 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae m&jr than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 
Willie's awa ! 



IV 



Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Vrae Colleges and boarding schools, 

* Edinburgh. 



May sprout like simmer puddock-stools, 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 
Willie's awa ! 



The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer* 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now male mony a stammer, 
Willie's awa ! 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour,t 
And toothy critics by the score, 
In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

VII. 

Now worthy G*****y's latin face, 
T***^r's and g*****""***'s modest grace; 
M' K****«, S***»t, such a brace. 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 
Willie's awa ! 

• The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of which 
Mr. C. was Secretary. 

+ Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at 
Mr. C — 's house at breakfast. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



129 



VIII. 



Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken? 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin, 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 
Willie's awa ! 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure 's fled, 
Willie's awa ! 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A* text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 
In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creech, 
Tho' far awa ! 

XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem, 
Fleet wing awa ! 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. — 



Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crashing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,. 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking 

star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- 
less age. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RU1SSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 

Except the moment that they crusht him ; 

| For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport.- ■ 

J Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and stark, 
Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him then ! 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE. 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 
Oh Jenny's a' weet, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 






* Ruisseaux—a play on his own name. 



R 



ISO * BURNS' 

Gin a body meet a body 
Comin thro' the glen ; 
Gin a body kiss a body, 
Need the -vvarld ken, 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.* 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 

Let Syme, Bums, and Maxwell, pervade 

every throng, 
With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the 

quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



BURNS— Extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 
But where is your shield from the darts of 
contempt ? 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13th, 1785. 
Guid speed an' furder to you Johnie, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an'haggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

• At this period of our Poet's life, when political 
animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
abov'e foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns 
and his friends for their political opinions. They were 
written by some member of a club styling themselves the 
Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united 
genius of that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poetical 
talent. The verses were handed over the table to Burns 
at a convivial mooting, and ho instantly endorsed the 
subjoined reply. Reliques, p. 1GS. 



POEMS. 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 

An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony clerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While diel a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk -folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye mak objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittelin the yard, 

An' theckit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae' winter night. 

Then muse inspirin aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranter 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WJLLTE'S PRAYS 
WHICH HE_HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. \7th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 



BURNS' 

My musie, tird wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 



I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That L, a simple, kintra bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-11 upon me. 



But I gae mad at their grimaces, 

Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces, . 

Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an* pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 



There's Gaun,* miska't waur than a beast, 
"Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him ? 

What way they've use't 



See himf the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums? 



POEMS. 181 

But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 



They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 



All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 



Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 



In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 



O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 



O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too renown'd, 
• An' manly preachers. 



God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times, I rather would be, 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for-a screen. 



Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gies you honour) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 
An' winning manner. 



An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 



* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

+ The poet has introduced the two first lines of this 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. 



Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 

An' if impertinent I've been, 

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye, 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd yc. 



132 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq, 
MAUCHLINE. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1780. 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty 

To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
•Jfout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 
As faith 1 muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin out auld crummie's nicks, 
An 7 tellin lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough, 
The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 
An' shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 
To meet the Warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 
1 ken he weel a Snick can draw, 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The prayer still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 

• Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer in 
Cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or 
markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their ;igc— 
He was an artful triek.contriving character ; hence he is 
railed a Snick-drawer, In the Poet's " Address to the 
Pril," he styles that august personage an auld, suick, 
drawing dog! Reliques; p. 397. 



TO MR. M'ADAM 



OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 



In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the com- 
mencement of my Poetic Career. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

1 lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 
Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt an dub, 

1 independent stand ay. — ■ 

And when those legs to guid, warm kail, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard 

A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

GLENRIDDEL. 
(Extempore Lines on returning a Neuspaper.) 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming ; 
1 The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

j Our friends the reviewers, those cnippers and 
hewers, . 
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



133 



But of meet, or unmeet, in afabrick complete, 
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your 
goodness 
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the 
sun, 
And then all the world, Sir, should know it I 



TO 



TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief ! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. — 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow, 

Tby lengthened days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

,. Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane s to lire — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, 

While Burns they ca' me. 



Clarinda, take this little boon, 
This humble pair of glasses.- 



TO A LADY, 

With- a Present of a Pair of Drinkitig-Glasses. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 
And Queen of Poetesses ; 

* Mr. Maxwell, of Tevraughty, near FHimfriej. 



And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind !" 

" To those who love us !" — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third — " to thee and me, love /" 



THE VOWELS. 



'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are 

plied 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour 

throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 
In all his pedagogic powers elate 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai / 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd, reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the 
ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing wo ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his 

art: 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's ttars he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



13<i 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SKETCH.* 



A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vire la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is 

comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Room and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, 

fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 



* This sketch seems to be one of a Series, intended for 
a projected work, under the title of " The Fact's Progress." 
This i^-inicter was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a 
letter to Professor Dugald Stewart, in winch it is thus 
noticed. " The fragment beginning A little, upright, pert, 
tint, &c. I have not shown to any man living, till I now 
send it lo you. It form:: the postulata, the axioms, the de- 
flnltionof a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
placed in b Variety Of lights. This particular part I send 
you merely as a .-ample of my hand at portrait sketching." 



And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of 

ruin ? 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scotish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- 
ceeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scotish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back '. 

Por us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle 

here ?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to beiong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike, — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 
thanks. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 

ON BEING 

APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



135 



On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord G. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ! 

Flit, G , and find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



On the Same. 

No Stewart art thou G , 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools 
Not one of them a knave. 



On the Same. 

Bright ran thy line, O G , 

Th )' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fara'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the Author being threatened 
with his Resentment. 

Spare me thy vengeance, G , 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 
Tune.—" Tlie Dragon of Wantley." 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob. for the famous job-* 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.— . 



This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd.— 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And wan his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s in the fire 

Squire Hal, besides, had, in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy j 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. — 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 






EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF 
SESSION. 

Tune.—" Gillicranlde." 
LORD A TE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for 't, he graped for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ER— NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man 
Like w T ind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



IS 6 BURNS' 

VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

[The Person to whom his Poem on shooting the 
Partridge is addressed, while Ranken occupied 
the Farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.} 

Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles* in a halter : 
Asham'd himself to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 
" By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the spiritual core present them, 
"Without, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d G-d !" quoth he, " I have it now 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath. 



On hearing that there was Falsehood in the 
Rev. Dr. B '5 very Looks. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure thev do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. 

Here lie Willie M — hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schulin of your weans ; 

For clever Deils he'll mak 'em ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

(A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — 
How does Dampiere do ? 
Ay, and Bournonville too ? [ourier ? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dum- 

* Tlic word Wintle, denotes sudden and involuntary 
motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it is here applied, 
it mny be admirably translated by the vulgar London ex- 
pression of Dancing upon nothing. 



POEMS. 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier, — 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dum- 
ourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier , 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt— Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

A SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire 's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie 's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an'roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck !— » 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien'; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no o'er auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, 1 pray tak care, 
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair, 






BURNS' 

Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent , 
But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 
As muckle better as you can. 

January I, 1739. 



VERSES 

Written under the Portrait of Fei'gusson, the 
Poet, in a copy of that author's works pre~ 
sented to a young Lady in Edinburgh, March 
19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 
pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! 
O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy late ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



POEMS, 



m 



SONGS. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.* 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered ioi snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

Ancf lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, §-e. 



SONG. 

1 DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
WERE SPRINGING.! 

1 dtceam'd I lay where flowers were springing, 
Gaily in the sunny beam ; 

* The chorus is old. 
+ These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, 
and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. 

Burns' Eeliques, p. 242. 



List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. \ 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy 'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a. joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



SONG.* 
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONG. 
MY BONNIE MARY.f 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And 1 maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

* I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann 
Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, 
the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, and two or 
three others in this work. Burns' Reliques, p. 266. 

t This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza of the 6ong 
is old. 

s 



138 



BURNS' 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



SONG. 

THERE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.* 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity 
That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, we6l-favour'd 
with a', 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is while as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been 
courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till 
her, 
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a 
haen him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy, 
— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest 
ofa\ 



SONG. 
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLAND'S.! 

My heart's in the Highland's, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

• This air is claimed by Niel Gow, who calls it his 
lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song 
Wold. 

t The first half-stanza is old. 



POEMS. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to tho 

North 
The birth-place of valour, the country oi 

worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys bet 

low : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 

woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring 

floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart, is not 

here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer: 
Chasing the wild deer, and following- the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



SONG.* 
THE RANT1N DOG THE DADDIE O'T. 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 

Wha will own he did the faut? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

W ha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss ine o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 



SONG. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE 
FAIR.t 

I do confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

* I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it 
to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, 
who was at that time under a cloud. 

Burns' Reliques, p. 278. 

t This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, 



BURNS' 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart could 
muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets* 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy 

How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like oay common weed and vile. 



SONG* 

Tune.— ''Craigie-burn Wood."t 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And O to be lying beyond thee, 

sweetly, soundly, iveel may he sleep, 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

• 4 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn- 
wood, 
And blithly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie- 
burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland 
—The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collection 
of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotland. 
— I think that I have improved the simplicity of the senti- 
ments, by giving them a Scots dress. 

Burnt' Reliques, p. 292. 

* tt is remarkable of this place that it is the confine of 
that country where the greatest part of our Lowland 
music (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can localize 
it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, 
until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely 
one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lori- 
mer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. " The young lady was 
born at Craigie-burn-wood. — The chorus is part of ar o\A 
foolish ballad. Hums- Reliqiies, p. 284. 

f The chorus is old.— Another ;. copy, of this, will -be 
fyund, ante^p. 101. 



POEMS. ] 3Q 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, fyc. 

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonnie, 
But oh, what will my torments be, 

If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 

Beyond thee, fyc. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 

In love to lie and languish, 
'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 

My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, fyc. 



SONG. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 

on his reed. 

Where the grouse, fyc. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 
shores, [moors ; 

To me hae the charms o 7 yon wild, mossy 
For there, by a lanely, and sequestered stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 
path, 

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, nar- 
row strath ; 

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 

While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' 
love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma' is her share : 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es 
me. 



140 
To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize, [sighs ; 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 
And when wit and refinement hae polished 

her darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 

sparkling e'e. 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



SO NG. 

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER 
DOOR? 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn yell work mischief ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, q^o' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower, 

Let it pass, quo" Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hoar; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



SONG.* 

Tune.—" The Woaver and his Shuttle, O." 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border, O 
And carefully he bred me in decency and 

order, O 

• Th'w song is wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in 
verification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feel- 
It. gt of mv heart, for that reason I have a particular 
pleasure la! conning it over. Burns' lieliques, p. 329. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I He bade me act a manly part, though I bad 
ne'er a farthing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man 
was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did de- 
termine, O 

Tho' to be rich, was not my wish, yet to be 
great was charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 
my education ; O 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my 
situation, O. 



In many a way, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tune's favour ; O 

Some cause unseen, still stept between, to 
frustrate each endeavour ; O 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken ; O 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was 
worst mistaken, O 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with for- 
tune's vain delusion ; O 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 
came to this conclusion ; O 

The past was bad, and the future hid ; its 
good or ill untried ; O 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so 
I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor per- 
son to befriend me : O 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and 
labour to sustain me O, 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my 
father bred me early ; O 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match 
for fortune fairly, O. 



r 



Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' 

life I'm doom'd to wander, O 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 

slumber: O 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 

breed me pain or sorrow ; O 
[ live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of 

to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 

in a palace, O 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with 

all her wonted malice ; O 
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can 

make it farther ; O 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much 

regard her, O. 



BURNS' POEMS 



141 



When sometimes by my labour I earn a little 

money, O 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally 

upon me ; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 

natur'd folly ; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll 

ne'er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with 

unremitting ardour, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 

your view the farther ; O 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 

to adore you, O 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer 

before you, O. 



SONG. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



SONG. 

A e fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov v d sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met— or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure ! 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



SONG. 

NOW BANK AN' BRAE ARE 
CLAITH'D IN GREEN. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me fiee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's walth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi'her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



SONG. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR 
AWA. 

O how can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 
It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that 's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 
My friends they hae disown'd me a\. 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that 's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 
And silken snoods he gave me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that *s far awa. 



142 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will clced the birken-shavr 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
A nd he'll come name that's far awa. 



SONG. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to 
me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to. my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But'i look to the west, when 1 gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



SONG. 

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 
And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 
And stowlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin-time* draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she 's doubly dear again ! 



How we live, my Meg and me* 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Wha 1 wish were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— ■ 



SONG. 
WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married— spier nae mair — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child— 
.—Wiser men than me's beguil'd : 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

• 7'rystin-timc— The time of appointment, 



SONG. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly dane'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma \ 
An' ay my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca', 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' : 
And ay he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG. 

M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Tone.—" M'Pherson's Lament." 

Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretches destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntivgly gaed lie; 
He j>lay'd a spring and dane'd it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?— 

On motiy a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



143 



And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 

I've liv'd a life of stnrt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, fyc. 



SONG. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 
. And use them as ye ought, man :— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 



SONG. 

Tune. — " Braes o' Balquhidder." 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again, 

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throno 

Are no sae blest as 1 am, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, fyc. 

When in my arms, wi' a thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
ril kiss thee, fyc. 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, Oj— ' 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, fyc. 



SONG. 

Tune.—" If he be a Butcher neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
And the glaccin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past; 
An* she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her forehead 's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow j 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 



144 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparklin een. 



Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 

And bring an angel pen to write 
My transports wi' my Anna ! 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

CVae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang joy 's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my 
ear. 

Lave, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I 

loved; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest, 

O if 1 were, where happy I hae been ; 

Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle 

green : 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



SONG. 

Tone. — " Banks of Carina." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw ua' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
W;is naething to my hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye nionarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

1 give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk stir gac hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 



S O NG* 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
And dane'd awa wi' the exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' the prize man. 

" We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink> 
We'll dance and sing and rejoice man ; 

And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil, 
That dane'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian',. 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
Well male our inaut, fyc." 



SONG. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my hdme.t 



HUNTING SONG. 

I RED YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTING. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn, 

* At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, 
Burns, being culled upon for a Song, handed these-vcrscs 
extempore to the President, written on the back of a 
letter. 

t Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of tlio 
Poet's departure to tho West. Indies. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



145 



O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 

/ red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak some on the wing; and some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown 

heather bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring. 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

I red, fyc. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 

hill; 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 

she lay. 

I red, fyc. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight.— 

J red, fyc. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them, 
They charm th admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When featherd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
Such sweetness would relent her, 

As blooming Spring unbends the brow 
Of surly, savage Winter. 



Detraction's eye no aim can gain 
Her winning powers to lessen : 

And fretful envy grins in vain, 
The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



SONG. 

Tune — «« The King of France, he rade a Race." 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hanging, O 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing ; O 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff, fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O— 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary ; O — 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



SONG. 



Tune.—" John Anderson my Jo.' 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



* This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. It 
is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his first 
publication. 



146 



SON G. 



Tune.—" Daintie Davie.' 



BURNS' POEMS, 

I But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 
Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 
A nd by a Mauchline lady. 



There was a lad was born at Kyle,* 
But what na day o' what na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin, 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin , rantin' rovin 1 ; 

Robin was a rovin 1 Boy, 
Rantin" rovin 7 Robin, 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Jan war Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin, 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'Jl be a credit till us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith quo' scho 1 doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur 
So blessin's on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' , rantin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 



SONG. 

Tune.— »• I had a Horse and I It-id ire mair." 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 
My mind it was nae steady, 

Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade 
A mistress still I had ay : 

• Ay/i—a district of Ayrshire. 



SONG. 

Tune " Galla Water." 

I Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be 
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. — 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. — 

Were 1 a Baron proud and high, 
And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 
The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy.- 



SONG. 

O Raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 
My stem was fair, my bud was green, 

My blossom sweet did blow ; O 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow ; O. 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



SONG. 



PATRIOTIC— unfinished. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa'. 






BUKifc^' POEMS. 



147 



It's guid to be merry and wise, 
It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie,* the chief o' the 

Altho' that his band be but sma\ [clan, 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil 1 

Here's a health to them thafs awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to Tammie,t the Norland 
That lives at the lug o' the law ! [laddie, 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 



SONG. 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, 
I heard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to 

sing, 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say, 
There's nae life like the Ploughman in the 

month o' sweet May — 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her 
nest, [breast, 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' the merry Ploughman she'll whistle 
and sing, [again. 

And at night she'll return to her nest back 



SONG. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 



* C. J. Fox. 



t Lord Erskine- 



Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou I 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in wo, 
To thee I bring a heart unchanged. — 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear .' 



SONG. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at 
last, 

And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running 
clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little 
hearts at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE 

TO 
ROBERT BURNS. 

February, 1787. 

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 

I hafflins doubt, it is na true man, 

That ye between the stilts were bred, 

Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed. 

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 

Either frae grammar-school, or college. 

Guid troth, your saul and body baith 

War' better fed, I'd gie my aith, 

Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritcb, 

An' bummil thro' the single caritcb, 

Wha ever heard the ploughman speak. 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ? 



148 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 
As get a single line of Virgil. 
An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes 
O' Willie P— t and Charlie F— x. 
Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 
An' how to gar the nation thrive, 
Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, 
An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 
An' though the cauld I ill can bide, 
Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride, 
O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble, 
Tho' my auld yad shou'd gie a stumble, 
To crack a winter-night wi' thee, 
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 
A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 
Wi' sick a chiel, a feast wad make, 
I'd rather scour your reaming yill, 
Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill, 
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 
An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 
O, gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide, 
I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 
'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw, 
An' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 
For south, as weel as north, my lad, 
A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the maud, 
Right wae 'that we're sae far frae ither : 
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 

Your most obedt. 

E. S. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE ANSWER. 



GUIDWIFE, 

I kind it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa, — 

E'en then a wish, (1 mind its power) 
A wish, tlrat to my latest hour 
Shall strongly heave my breast ; 



That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan, or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 

Hale to the set, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, na bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scotish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 
Douse hingin o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang hale then, 

An' plenty be your fa : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



Robert Burns 



March, 1787. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



149 



SONG. 

Tune.—" The tither morn, as I forlorn.' 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
And glances o'er the brae, Sir : 

Slides by a bower where raony a flower, 
Shades fragrance on the day, Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 

To love they thought nae crime, Sir ; 
The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
• While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



SONG. 

As 1 cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary ; 
O wha cam tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The queen of love, did never move, 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sauds, 

Adown yon winding river, 
And, Oh ! that hour, an' broomy bower 

Can I forget it ever ? 



POLLY STEWART. 

Tune.—" Ye're welcome Charlie Stewart." 

O Lov ely Polly Stewart, 

O charming Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

IMay he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stew art ! 
O lovely, §'<?. 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie 
lass, 
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her 
arms, 
Wi' mony a sigh and a tear. 
Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly 
roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear ; 
And nocht could him quell, or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae de:tr. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune "Johnny M'Gill." 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar; 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a 

car, 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 

Robin shure in hairst, 

I shure wi' him, 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 
To warp a wab o' plaiden, 

At his daddie's yett, 
Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick 

And me the eller's dochter ? _ 
Robin shure, §c. 

Robin promised me 

A* my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, fyc. 



150 



BURNS' POEMS. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS 
UPONT. 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps andjirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane, 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 



My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 



Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 



My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and 

jacket : 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and j 

doublet, 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

doublet. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be him sark and 

cravat : 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 



THE NORTHERN LASS. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

Far as the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains rise, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

1 still would love my J ean. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

O Mary, how 1 love thee. 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 



Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd 

The voice of nature prizing. 



O GUID ALE COMES. 



guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' weel enough, 

I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hiz-zie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
guid ale comes, and gude ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



• 



BURNS' POEMS, 



15t 






O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel, 
They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel, 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 

O ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife she bang'd me ; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soon o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry 'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sairie comfort still at last, 
When a' thir days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earth is past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, fyc. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife, 

He was but a paidlin body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late and early, O ; 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 

O had your tongue, my feirie auld wife, 
O had your tongue now, Nansie, O : 

I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 
Ve wadna been sae donsie, O: 



I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, 
And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O ; 

But downa do's come o'er me now, 
And, Oh, 1 find it sairly, O ! 



DELIA. 



AN ODE. 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, ro^e ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS 

On a bank of flowers one summer's day, 

For summer lightly dress'd, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep oppress'd; 
When Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favour oft had su'd, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath 'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace, 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A flatteriug ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 



152 BURNS* 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear inspired wings ; 
So Nelly startling, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willy follow'd as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood, 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 

Fo/giving all and good. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks with temperate ray 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh I stream whose murmurs still I hear I 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
•Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs ? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ; 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasure bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 

Tune.—" Chevy Chace." 

There were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hamc. 



POEMS. 

Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith,* 

A dame wi' pride enough ; 
And Marjorie o' the raonie Loch,t 

A Carlin auld an' teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale,t 
That dwells near Solway side, 

And whisky Jean that took her gill§ 
In Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin, 
Five weightier Carlins were na found 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a Laird, 

That errand fain would gae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a Laird, 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border band, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then niest came in a sodger youth, 

And spak wi' modest grace, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift, 

Nor meikle speech pretend ; 
But he wad hecht an honest heart 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whom to choose and whom refuse ; 

To strife thae Carlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folk to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Mego' Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth 

Whatever might betide. 

* Dumfries. + Lochmaben. J Annan. 

§ Kirkcudbright. Sanquhar. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



1 58 



For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She did not care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, - 
That she wad rote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

For far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

An' fools o' change are fain : 
But I hae tried the border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

A Carlin stout and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman, 

For me may sink or swim ! 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang, 

While knaves laugh them to scorn : 
But the Sodger's friends hae blawn the best 

Sae he shall bear the horn. 

P 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow raise Marjorie o' the Lochs, 

And wrinkled was her brow : 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wha I lo'e best at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will. end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
TO ME. 

When Jauuary winds were blawing cauld, 

As to the north I bent my w r ay, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I keun'd ua whare to lodge till day,- 



By my guid luck a lass I met, 

Just in the middle of my care, 
And kindly she did me invite, 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie 
I bow'd fn' low unto this maid, 

And bade her make a bed for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye 
sound/' 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

And frae my chamber went wi' speed : 
But I call'd her quickly back again, 

To lay some mair below my head ; 
A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me with due respect ; 
And to salute her with a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud affyour hands, young man," she says, 

"And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
Gif ye hae ony love for me, 

wrang na my virginity \" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivory, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed for me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

1 thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigh'd, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinkling in her e'e : 
I said, " m}c. lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, 

And made them a' in sarks to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forget, till the day that I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
U 



154 BURNS' 

THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de- 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; [clare, 

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 
And orator Bob $ is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild § D'rymple mild, tho' your 
heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

ye, 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John,|| Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 
addle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James,f Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames, 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
ing the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, ft Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 
death, 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

* This Poom was written a short time after the publica- 
tion of Dr. M'Gill's Essay. 

t Dr. M'Gill. % R 1 A— k— n. § Mr. D— m— le. 

|| Mr. H-ss-H. IT Mr. M'K-y. ** Mr. M y. 

ft Mr. A— d. 



POEMS. 

Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye 
do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : [boast, 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose, t Jamie Goose, ye hae made but 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's 
haly ark, 
He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, t Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he s — t. 

Andro Gouk,§ Andro Gouk, ye may slander 
the book, 
And the book nane the waur let me tell ye ! 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 
wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie,|| Barr Steenie, what mean ye? 
what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side,! Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock 

pride, , . 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 

allow, [mair. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae 

Muirland Jock,** Muirland Jock when the 
L— d makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, [fit 

If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,tt Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull., 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 
sant, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp ri- 
tual guns, 

Ammunition you never can need ; [enough, 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

• Mr. G 1 of O— 1— e. t Mr. Y— g of C— n— k 

X Mr. r—b— s of A— r. § Dr. A M— 11. 

|| Mr. S n Y g of B r. IT Mr. S— — h 

of G n. •• Mr. S d. ft An Eld&r in M e 



BURNS' POEMS. 



155 



Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelp- 
ing turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur then we are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O! dool to tell, 
Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 






What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he hk'd to shed their bluid, 

Aad sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale? 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were «ick or hale, 



L 



At the first sight. 



He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 
And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't — 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neither's lien' I 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A— d, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they tgree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heavn to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

I) e has been Iang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S — ~s, 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef ; 

1 meikle dread him. 



And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a gray nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 
To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themselves, 
To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 



156 BURNS' POEMS. 

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear 



That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 

M' ll's close nervous excellence, 

M'Q— — 's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M* h 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack afl'. 



EPISTLE FROM A TAYLOR 



ROBERT BURNS. 

What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting 1 can scarce forbear, 
Folks tell me, ye're gawn aff this year, 

Out o'er the sea, 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee. 

Weel wad I like war ye to stay, 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I hae a word yet mair to say, 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect us night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee companie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye'll won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell mc, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade, 
Cou'd 1 persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 

Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell, 
Gin ye persist in doing ill — 
Waes me i ye're hurlin down the hill 

Withouten dread, 
An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill 
After ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'll get near, 
But gettin weans ye will forbear, 



Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nao kissing there— ye'll girn an' sneer, 
An' ither hiss. 

O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks, 
An' steer nae mair the female sex, 
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll see ; 
Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks ; 

I'm wae for thee. 

But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
Amaist as loud as ony bell ? 
While it does mak my conscience tell 
Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, 

Owre sib to you ! 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff their noddles fir* a' wit, 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let them see down to the pit, 

That lang, dark night. 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa», 
May he that made us keep us a', 
For that wad be a dreadfu' fa» 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak care. 



THE ANSWER. 



What ails ye now, ye lousie b h, 

To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did na suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 
An' jag the flae. 

King David o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

A n' bloody rants, 
An' yet lie's rank'd .mang the chief 

O' larig :-}ne saunfs. 



And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clouty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 
Than garran lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort— 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, " Robin ! 
Come hither lad, an answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin.' 

• Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An* snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scorn'd to Jie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator lown he call'd me, 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" But what the matter ?" 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you" quo' he, st and what for no ! 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' what for no 

Your dearest member V 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fau't, 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it. 

Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather. 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warstava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

1 1 said, " Guid night 



157 
and cam awa', 
And left the Session ; 
j I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and reVrend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin looks back, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w— ter ; 
Alas.' there s ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death j 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm 's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her, 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 

Death soon will end hef. 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 
A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO J S T T GL— NO— R. 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
i How's a' the folk about Gl— nc— r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That 's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me my faculties are frozen, 

My dearest member nearly dozen'd ; 

i 
I 

* Dr. Taylor of Norwich, 



158 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing, 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, 1 charge you strictly, 
Peruse them an' return them quickly ; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men ; 
When bending down with auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and Cares, 
May he who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



ON THE DEATH OF 
SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western 
wave ; [air, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
train ;* [well,t 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. J 

* The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

i St. Anthony's Well. J St. Anthony's Chapel 



Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 

rocks, [sky, 

The clouds swift- wing'd flew o'er the starry 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 

And shooting meteors caught the startling 

eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of wo that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride ! 

iC A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh.— 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laidthis guardian low. — 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ! 
No ; every muse shall join her tuneful 
tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs"— 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast. 



<®mm 3®M^1T BOMMAJBOi: 



A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their ora duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping 
The vera girdle rang. 



First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 
Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty uj? — 



Tune.— « Soldier's Joy." 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in 

a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. Lai de daudle, $c. 

* The old Scotish name for tbe Bat. 



My 'prentiship I past where my leader breath'd 

his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

of Abram ; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. Lai de daudle, fyc. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 
batt'ries, [limb : 

And there I left for witnesses an arm and a 

Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 
head me, 

I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 
drum. Lai de daudle, fyc. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging overmy bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and 

my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, fyc. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

windy shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for 

a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of h-11 at the sound of 

the drum. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune.— « Soldier Laddie." 

£ once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 



160 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Some one of a troop of dragoons was my dad- 
die, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, fyc. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, fyc. 

JBut the goodly old chaplain left him in the 
lurch, [church, 

So the sword I forsook for the sake of the 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, fyc. 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, fyc. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they flutter'd sae gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, fyc. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still 1 can join in a cup or a song; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the 

glass steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, #c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na what the chorus took, 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy ; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 
Tune.— " Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 



My grannie she bought me a beak. 
And I held awa to the school ; 

1 fear I my talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft. 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and (piaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that 's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L— d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been ducket ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune.—" O an' ye were dead guidman." 

A highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman ; 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ; 
There's not a lad in all the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

Sing hey,fyc. 



BURNS' 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a LaJlan face he feared nane, 
My gallant, Draw John Highlandman. 
Smg, hey, #c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, Sfc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, fyc. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, m 

His giga solo. 



Tune.—" Whistle o'er the lave oV 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 



I" am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play' d, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle o'er the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And Oh ! sae nicely 's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 

2" am, 8;c. 



POEMS. 161 

Sae merrily 's the banes well pyke, 
And sun oursells about the dyke, 
And at our leisure when we like, 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am, §c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

J am, fyc. 

recitativo. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — - 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 

AIR. 
Tune. — " Clout the Cauldion." 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've taen the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've taen the gold, Sfc. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by that stoup, fyc. 



* A peculiar sort of Whisky; 
He with Poofiie Nansie's clubs. 
V 



) called ; a great favour* 



162 



BURNS' POEMS. 



rtECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but— to be glad, 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 
Tune. — " For a' that, and a' that." 

I AM a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 

Frae town to town 1 draw that. 

CHORUS. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough, for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and lichly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, fyc. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, Sfc. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

"Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, fyc. 



Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex !' 
I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as mttkle's a' that, 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't, for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their 

duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best; 
He, rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune.—" Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses. 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in rapturete let us sing : 



A fig for those by law protected/ 
Liberty's a glorious feast / 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? What is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 



A fig, $c. 



With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 



A fig, Sfc. 



Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



163 



Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let thern cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 



A fig, $c 



Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A fig, 8fc. 



EXTEMPORE. 



April, 1782. 

why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ? 

Fin twenty three, and five feet nine— 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 
I held it weel thegither ; 

But now it's gane and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



THE END. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo, is 
commonly spelled ou. The French w, a sound which often occurs in the Scotish language, 
is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scotish words, except when forming a diphthong, or 
followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in 
wall. The Scotish diphthong ce, always, and en, very often, sound like the French e mas- 
culine. The Scotish diphthong ey, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A. 



A\ All. 

Aback y away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in bread Ih. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Afloof, unpremeditated. 

Afore-, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agleij, off the right line ; wrong. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest-money. 

Aim, iron. 

Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas. 

Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An 1 , and ; if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring. 

Athart, athwart. 

Aught, possession; as, in a' my aught, in 

all my possession. 
Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 

k years. 



Auld, old. 

Auldfarran, or auld farrant, sagacious, cun- 
ning, prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa', away. 
Awfu 7 , awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ayont, beyond. 



B. 



BA\ Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning. * 

Back, returaing. 

Bad, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bafrntime, a family of children, a brood. 

Baith, both. 

Ban, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 

Bardie, diminutive of bard„ 

Barejit, barefooted. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 

Batts, bots. 

Baudrons, a cat. 

Bauld, bold. 

Bawk, bank. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the 

face. 
Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease. 
Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire. 
Beld, bald, 
Belyve, by and by 



166 



GLOSSARY. 



Ben, into the spence or parlour ; a spence. 

Bcnlommid, a noted mountain in Dum- 
bartonshire. 

Bethankit, grace after meat. 

Beuk, a book.. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish; a short race 

Bie, or Bield, shelter. 

Bicn, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, a bull. 

BilUe, a brother; a young fellow. 

Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 

Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-ivood-shaw, a small 
wood. 

Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when 
they spring. 

Bit, crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term of con 
tempt. 

Blastit, blasted. 

Blatc, bashful, sheepish. 

Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap. 

Blaw, to blow, to boast. 

Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 

Bleert and blin', bleared and blind. 

Bleezing, blazing. 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense. 

Blclh'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to 
look kindly ; to shine by fits. 

Blinker, a term of contempt. 

Blinkin, smirking. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get 
annually, on the king's birth-day, a 
blue cloak or gown, with a badge. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

Blype, a shred, a large piece. 

Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently. 

Bocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or Bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 
small jannock, or loaf made of oatmeal. 

Boord, a board. 

Boortrce, the shrub elder; planted mush 
of old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 

Boost, behoved, must needs. 

Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Botch, an angry tumour. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 



Bowt, bended, crooked. 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope 

of a hill. 
Braid, broad. 
Braindg't, reeled forward. 
Braik, a kind of harrow. 
Braindge, to run rashly forward. 
Brak, broke, made insolvent. 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 
Brash, a sudden illness. 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Braw, fine, handsome. 
Brawly, or brawlie, very well ; finely ; 

heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breastie, diminutive of breast. 
Breastit, did spring up or forward. 
Breckan, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell. 
Breeks, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Brewin, brewing. 
Brie, juice, liquid. 
Brig, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 
Brither, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 
Broo, broth ; liquid ; water. 
Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings, 

who shall first reach tLe bridegroom's 

house on returning from church. 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst ; burst. 
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea 

among the rocks on the coast of Buchan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the 

sheep in the pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, stout-made ; broad-made. 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in 

the summer evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Bummle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 
Bardies, diminutive of birds. 
Bare, did bear. 
Burn, water; a rivulet. 
Burnewin, i. e. burn the wind, a black 

smith. 
Burnie, diminutive of burn. 
Buskie, bushy. 



GLOSSARY. 



167 



Buslrit, dressed. 

Busks, dresses. 

Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 

Buss, shelter. 

But, bot, with ; without. 

But an' ben, the country kitchen and 

parlour. 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted. 
Bykp, a bee-hive. 
Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 



CA' To call, to name ; to drive. 

Ca't, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or Caddie, a person ; a young fellow. 

Caff, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie, or canme, gentle, mild ; dexterous. 

Cannilie, dexterously ; gently. 

Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cap-stane, cope-stone ; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking-vessel. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel, a young fellow. 

Chhnla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug, the fireside. 

Chiitering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, chocking. 

C how, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by side. 

Chuffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village about a church ; 

a hamlet. 
Claise, or claes, clothes. 
Claith, cloth. 
Claithing, clothing. 

Claivcrs, nonsense ; not speaking sense. 
Clap, clapper of a mill. 
Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 
Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story. 
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 



Claut, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clauted, scraped. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

deeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

Clinkin, jerking ; clinking. 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bell. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouds. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing boat. 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a 

girl's head ; a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, diminutive of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 

called, saith tradition, from Coil, or 

Coilus, a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a par- 
ticular name for country curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cookit, appeared, and disappeared by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish: — also, those 
fowls ivhose legs are clad with feathers are 

said to be cootie. 
Corbies, a species of the crow. 
Core, corps ; party ; clan. 
Corn'l, fed with oats. 
Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or 

cottage. 
Couthie, kind, loving. 
Cove, a cave. 
Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ; a 

fright ; a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Cowp, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang. 
Cowpit, tumbled. 
Cowrin, cowering. 
Cowt, a colt. 
Cozie, snug. 
Cozily, snugly. 
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 
Crack, conversation ; to converse. 
Crackin, conversing. 
Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in oia 

husbandry ). 
Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird. 



crambo-jingle, 



GLOSSARY 

rhymes 



168 
Crambo-clink, or 

doggrel verses. 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 
Crankous, fretful, captious. 
Crmreuchf the hoar frost. 
Crap, a crop ; to crop. 
Craw, a crow cf a cock ; a rook. 
Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, 

to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 
Creeshie, greasy. 
Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 
Croon, a hollow and continued moan; to 

make a noise like the continued roar of 

a bull; to hum a tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouchie, crook-backed. 
Crouse, cheerful ; courageous. 
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously. 
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and 

boiled water, sometimes from the broth 

of beef, mutton, &c. 
Crowdie-time, breakfast time. 
Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 
Crump, hard and brittle; spoken of bread. 
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 
Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 
Cummock, a short staff with a crooked 

head. 
Curchie, a courtesy. 
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, 

practised in Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally 

in ringlets. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring; a slight rum- 
bling noise. 
Curpin, the crupper. 
Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 
Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in the middle. 
Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 



D. 



D ADD IE, a father. 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishness. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Duimcn, rare, now and then; daimen-icker, 
an ear of corn now and then. 

Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agree- 
able. 

Daisc, daez, to stupify. 

Dales, plains, valleys. 

Darklins, darkling. 

])aud, to thrash, to abuse. 

])itur, to dare. 

Dttnrt, dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour. 

Davoc, David. 



Dawd, a large piece. 

Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed. 

Dearies, diminutive of dears. 

Dearthfu', dear. 

Deave, to deafen. 

Deil-ma-care ! no matter ! for all that ! 

Deleerit, delirious. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff. 

Dight, cleaned from chaff. 

Ding, to worst, to push. 

Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 

Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 

Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen. 

Doited, stupified, hebetated. 

Dolt, stupified, crazed. 

Donsie, unlucky. 

Dool, sorrow; to sing dool, to lament, to 
mourn. 

Doos, doves. 

Dorty, saucy, nice. 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent. 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

Dowff, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half 
asleep. 

Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 

Doylt, stupid, 

Dozen t, stupified, impotent. 

Drap, a drop ; to drop. 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle a- 
mong wet, &c. 

Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling ; of a slow enuncia- 
tion. 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 

Dreigh, tedious, long about it. 

Dribble, drizzling ; slaver. 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpVt, that droops at the crupper. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought. 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in a 
raw state. 

Drunt, pet, sour humour. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Duds, rags, clothes. 

Duddie, ragged. 



GLOSSARY. 



Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 
Dunted, beaten, boxed. 
Dnsh, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



E'E, the eye. 

Een, the eyes. 

E'enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or church officer. 

En 7 , end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydent, diligent. 



FA', fall ; lot ; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls* 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Fatket, unknown. 

Fairin, a fairing ; a present 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care for. 

Fasht, troubled. 

Faster en-e' en, Fasten's Even. 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field ; smooth. 

FearfvH, frightful. 

Fear't, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves. 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feclcly, weakly. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feidc, feud, enmity. 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting ; the flesh immediately 

under the skin ; a field pretty level, on the 

side or top of a hill. 
Fen, successful struggle 5* fight. 



169 



Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a 

term of contempt. 
Fetch, to pull by fits. 
Fetch't, pulled intermittently. 
Fidge, to fidget. 
Fiel, soft, smooth. 
Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 
Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; 

a bustle. 
Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan', the nearer horse of the hindmost- 
pair in the plough. 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like formenta- 

tion. 
Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 
Fleech'd, supplicated. 
Fleechin, supplicating. 
Fleesh, a fleece. 
Fleg, a kick, a random 
Flethcr, to decoy by fair words. 
Fletherin, flattering. 
Fley, to scare, to frighten. 
Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings when 

their dam approaches. 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 
Flinging-lree, a piece of timber hung by way 

of partition between two horses in a stable; 

a flail. 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit, fretted. 
Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small 

birds. 
Flittering, fluttering, vibrating. 
Flunkie,, a servant in livery. 
Fodgel, squat and plump. 
Foord, a ford. 
F'orbears, forefathers. 
Forbye, besides, 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn out, jaded. 
Forfoughten, fatigued. 
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. 
Forgie, to forgive. 
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 
Fother, fodder. 
Fou, full ; drunk. 
Foughten, troubled, harassed. 
Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 
Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 
Frae, from ; off. fwitlu 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity 
Freath, froth. 
Frien\ friend. 
Fu\ full. 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &.e. 
Fnff, to blow intermittently. 
Fuff't, did blow. 
Funnie, full of merriment 
Y 



piddle, to be in a 



170 

Fur, a furrow. 
Furm, a form, bench. 
Fyke, trifling cares ; to 

fuss about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied. 

G 

GAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gaber-lunzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives 

the horses in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone ; 

gaun, going. 
Guet , or gate, way, manner ; road. 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on 

the bottom of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gaft, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 

Gush, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to con- 
verse. 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or 

scorn. 
Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 
Genty, elegantly formed, neat. 
Geordie, a guinea. 
Get, a child, a young one. 
Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; glen, given. 
Giftie, diminutive of gift. 
Gigtets, playful girls. 
Gillie, diminutive of gill. 
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy or 

girl, a romping lad, a hoiden. 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 
Gin, if; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &c. 
Girning, grinning. 
Gizz, a periwig. 
Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 
Glaive, a sword. 

Gauky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 
Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 
Glaum, to snatch greedily. 
Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 
Gleck, sharp, ready. 
Gleg, sharp, ready. 
Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 
Gky, a squint; to squint; a-gley, off" at a 

side, wrong. 



GLOSSARY. 

Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintin, peeping. 

Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 

Glowred, looked, stared. 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, in 
quiring gaze j staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowff, the game of Golf; to strike as the bat 
does the ball at golf. 

Gowjf'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunt-, 
ed. 

Graining, groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning 
stables. 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, 
gear. 

Grannie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Grapit, groped. 

Grat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be de- 
cidedly victor. 

GreeH, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, catched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to play 
a losing game. 

Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grumph, a grunt ; to grunt. 

Grumphie, a sow. 

Grun', ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting noise. 

Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick ; of thriving gi'owth. 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-morning, good morrow; 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and gnidu-ife, the master and mis- 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married. 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, and 
mother-in-law. 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 



! 



GLOSSARY. 



Gumlie, muddy. 
Gusty, tasteful. 



171 



H. 



HA' hall. 

Ha'~Bible, the great bible that lies in the 

hall. 
Hae, to have. 
Haen, had, the participle. 
Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of negation ; 

nothing. 
Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. 
Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors. 
Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the 

stomach of a cow or sheep. 
Haiti, to spare, to save. 
Hain'd, spared. 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought. 
Hal', or hold, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 
Haly, holy. 
Hame, home. 

Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at 

the outside. 
Hallowmas, Hallow-eve-, the 31st of October. 
Hamely, homely, affable. 
Han', or haun', hand. 
Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. 

to wrap, to cover ; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 

Hap step an' lotip, hop skip and leap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Ham, very coarse linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to 

dress nor act with propriety. 
Hastit, hastened. 
Haud, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 
Haurl, to drag ; to peel. 
Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a halfwitted person ; halfwitted. 
Havins, good manners, decopum, good sense. 
Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 

face. 
Heapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 
Hearse, hoarse. 
Hear't, hear it. 
Hmther, heath. 
Hech! oh! strange. 
Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that 

is to be got or given; foretold; the thing 

foretold; offered. 
Heckk, a board, in which are fixed a num- 



ber of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, 
flax, &c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks. 

Herrin, a herring. 

Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunder 
birds' nests. 

Herryment, plundering, devastation. 

Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any 
sort. 

Het, hot. 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit. 

Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 

Hilchin, halting. 

Himsel, himself. 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 

Hissel, so many cattle as one person can at- 
tend. 

Histie, dry ; chapped; barren. 

Hitch, a loop, a knot. 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman 
riding on a cart-horse ; humble. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in cur- 
ling, drawn across the rink. 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse play, by just- 
ling with the shoulder ; to justle. 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas- 
cod. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoolie i take leisure, stop. 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard. 

Hoordit, hoarded. 

Horn, a spoon made of horn. 

Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 

Hosts, coughs. 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 

Houghmagandie, fornication. 

Houlet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of house. 

Hove, to heave, to swell. 

Hov'd, heaved, swelled. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 
horse, &c. 

Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort 

Howk, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Hoiclet, an owl. 

Hoy, to urge. 

Hoy't, urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upwards. 

Hoyie, to amble crazily. 



172 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 
Ilurchoon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdles, the loins ; the crupper. 
Ilushion, a cushion. 



I. 



Tin. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 

Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; fire-place. 

Ise, I shall or will. 

Rher, other ; one another. 



J. 



J AD, jade ; also a familiar term among 
country folks for a giddy young girl. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated 
water. 

Jaw, coarse raillery; to pour out; to shut, 
to jerk as water. 

Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; hand- 
some. 

Jimps, easy stays. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; a sudden 
turning ; a corner. 

Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly 
girl; a wag. 

Jinkin, dodging. 

J irk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 

Jow, tojow, a verb which includes both the 
swinging motion and pealing sound of 9 
large bell. 

Jundie, tojustle. 



K. 



KAE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth. 
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 
Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer. 
Ke.bhuck, a cheese. 
Heckle, to giggle ; to titter. 
Keck, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 
rant <brds and ferries at night, especially 
in storms. 

o know ; kend or kenn'd, knew. 
KenrUn. a imall matter. 



GLOSSARY. 

Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindled ; kin', kind, adj. 
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 

an ox, &c 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread ; to 

serve for soup, gravy, &c. 
Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt 
Kittlin, a young cat. 
Kiuttle, to cuddle. 
Kinttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow. 
Knappin-hummer, a hammer for breaking 

stones. 
Knoive, a small round hillock. 
Knurl, a dwarf. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 
Kyte, the belly. 
Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self. 



L. 



LADDIE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and 

bottom of a wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 
Lairing, wading, and sinking in snow, 

mud, &c. 
Laith, loath. 

Laithfu', bashful, sheepish. 
Lallans, the Scotish dialect of the English 

language. 
Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 
Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 
Lan', land ; estate. 
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, <Sfc. myself 

alone, &c. 
Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary. 
Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 
Laverock, the lark. 
Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 
Latvian, lowland. 
Lea'e, to leave. 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 
Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 
Lear, (pronounce lare), learning. 
Lee-lang, live-long. 



-^ 



GLOSSARY. 



173 



Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endear- 
ment; I am happy in thee, or proud of 
thee. 

Leister, a three-prong'd dart for striking fish 

Leugh, did laugh. 

Leuk, a look ; to look. 

Libbet, gelded. 

Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at. 

Lilt, 'a. ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled. 

Link, to trip along. 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a waterfall ; a precip ce. 

Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, flax in flower. 

Lint white, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 

Loof, the palm of the hand. 

Loot, did let. 

Lowes, plural of loof. 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 

easy virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lvwe, a flame. 
Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lows' d, loosed. 
Lug, the car ; a handle. 
Lugget, having a handle. 
Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 
Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke. 
Luntin, smoking. 
Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. 



M. 



MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Mallie, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the 
minister lives. 

Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, (This and several other nouns 
which in English require an s, to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the tvords sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted. 

Mar's year, the year X715. 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 



Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Maw, to mow. 

Mawin, mowing. 

Meere, a mare. 

Meikle, meickle, much. 

Melancholious, mournful. 

Blelder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to 

the mill to be ground. 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pound- 
ing barley in a stone trough. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 
Messin, a small dog. 
3Iidden, a dunghill. 
Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a 

dunghill. 
Mini, prim, affectedly meek. 
Min', mind ; resemblance. 
Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending. 
Minnie, mother, dam. 
Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest. 
Misca 1 , to abuse, to call names. 
Blisca'd, abused. 

Mislear'd , mischievous, unmanned}'. 
Misteuk, mistook. 
Mither, a mother. 
Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed, 
Moistify, to moisten. 
Mony, or monie, many. 
Moots, dust, earth, the earth of the grave. 

To rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust. 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 
Moorlan' of or belonging to moors. 
Blorn, the next day, to-morrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moudiwort, a mole. 
Mousie, diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 
Musie, diminutive of muse. 
Mmlin-kail, broth, composed simply of 

water, shelled barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 

N. 

NA, no, nci*, nor. 

Nae, no, not any. 

Naething, or naithing, nothing. 

Naig, a horse. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 

Negleckit, neglected. 



174 

Neuk, a nook. 

Niest, next. 

Nieve, the fist. 

Nievefu', handful. 

Nijfer, an exchange ; to exchange, to barter. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north. 

Notic't, noticed. 

Nowte, black cattle. 



O. 



0\ of. 

Ochels, name of mountains. 

O /ia?7/», O faith ! an oath. 

Ony, or onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be 

spared. 
Ot, of it. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, or oursels, ourselves. 
Outlers, cattle not housed. 
Ower, over ; too. 
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 

hammer over the arm. 



P. 



PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of 

wool. 
Painch, paunch. 
Paitrick, a partridge. 
Pang, to cram. 
Parle, speecb. 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known 

Scotch dish. 
Pat, did put ; a pot. 
Pattle, oxpettle, a plough-staff. 
Paughty, proud, haughty. 
Pauley, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 
Pay't, paid ; beat. 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, as in an 

asthma. 
Pcchan, the crop, the stomach. 
Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 
Philibegs, short petticoats worn by the High- 

landmen. 
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 
Phrairin, flattery. 
Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to 

the bagpipe. 
Pickle, a small quantity. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Pit, to put. 



GLOSSARY. 

Placad, a public proclamation. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part o( 

a Scotch penny, twelve of which make an 

English penny. 
Plackless, penny less., without money. 
Platie, diminutive of plate. 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 
Pliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as 

the laws of Scotland allow . 
Poortith, poverty. 
Pom, to pull. 
Pouk, to pluck. 
Poussie, a hare, or cat. 4 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 
Pou't, did pull. 
Powthery, like powder. 
Pow, the head, the skull. 
Poivnie, a little horse. 
Powther, or pouther, pow er. 
Preen, a pin. 
Prent, to print ; print. 
Prie, to taste. 
Prie'd, tasted. 
Prief, proof. 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute. 
Priggin, cheapening. 
Primsie, demure, precise. 
Propone, to lay down, to propose. 
Provoscs, provosts. 
Puddock-stool, a mushroom, fungus. 
Pund, pound ; pounds. 
Pyle,—upyle o' cqf, a single grain of chaff. 



Q. 



QUAT, to quit. 
Quak, to quake. 
Quey, a cow from one to two years old. 



R. 



RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 

Raiblc, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezVd, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, (properly) a coarse cloth ; but used 

as an adnoun for coarse. 
Rarely, excellently, very well. 
Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 
Ralton, a rat. 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless. 
Raught, reached* 
Raw, a row. 
Rax, to stretch. 
Ream, cream ; to cream. 
Reaming, brimful, frothing. 



GLOSSARY, 



175 



Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shodf walk ng iu blood over the 

shoe-tops. 
Red-wud, stark mad. 
Ree, half drunk, fuddled. 
Reek, smoke. 
Reekin, smoking. 
Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 
Remead, remedy. 
Requite, requited. 
Rent, to stand restive. 
Restit, stood restive ; stunted ; withered. 
Restricked, restricted. 
Rew, to repent, to compassionate. 
Rief, reef, plenty. 
Rief randies, sturdy beggars. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that 

crosses the saddle of a horse to support 

the spokes of a cart; spare, withered, 

sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in 

curling on ice. 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 
Rockin, spinning on the rock, or distaff". 
Rood, stands likewise for the plural roods. 
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage. 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roostij, rusty. 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood. 
Roupet, hoarse, as with a oold. 
Routhie, plentiful. 
Row, to roll, to wrap. 
Row 7 t, rolled, wrapped. 
Rowte, to low, to bellow. 
Rowth, or routh, plenty. 
Rowtin, lowing. 
Rozet, rosin. 
Rung, a cudgel. 
Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage. 
Ruth, a woman's name ; the book so called ,• 

sorrow. 
Ryke, to reach. 



SAE, so. 

Soft, soft. 

Sair, to serve ; a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sark, a shirt; a shift. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Saugh, the w.UIow. 

Saul, soul. 



Saumont, salmon. 

Saunt, a saint. 

Saut , salt, adj. salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sawin, sowing. 

Sax, six. 

Scaith, to damage,, to injure ; injury. 

Scar, a cliff. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared. 

Scawl, a scold ; a termagant. 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe. 

Scratch, to scream as a hen, partridge, &c. 

Screed, to tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 

Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, seV; a bodifs sel, one's self alone. 

Sell't, did sell. 

Sen', to send. 

Sen't, I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it. 

Servan', servant. 

Settlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be fright- 
ed into quietness. 

Sets, sets off, goes away. 

Shachled, distorted ; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting 
the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him away. 

Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Sheen, bright, shining. 

Sheep-shank; to think one's self nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the femous 
battle fought in the rebellion, A. D. 1715. 

Sheugh* a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side. 

Shool, a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shor'd, offered. 

Shouther, the shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver ; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin' since. 

Skaith, see scaith. 



176 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a 

smart tripping step ; a smart stroke. 
Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female 

scolding. 
Skelpin, stepping, walking. 
Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, high- 
mettled. 
Skinklin, a small portion. 
Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 
Skirling, shrieking, crying. 
SkiiTt, shrieked. 
Sklent, slant; to run aslant, to deviate 

from truth. 
Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direc- 
tion. 
Skouth, freedom to converse without re- 
straint ; range, scope. 
Skriegh, a scream ; to scream. 
Skyrin, shining ; making a great show. 
Skyte, force, very forcible motion. 
Slae, a sloe. 
Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 
Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 
Slate, slow. 
Slee, sly ; sleest, sliest. 
Sleekit, sleek; sly. 
Sliddery, slippery. 
Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from 

the plough. 
Slypet, fell. 
Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor, to smother. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytrie, a numerous collection of small 
individuals. 

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate. 

Snaw, snow ; to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door. 

Sued, to lop, to cut off. 

Snceshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty. 

Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with op- 
pressive slavery ; to submit tamely, to 
sneak. 

Snoore, to go smoothly and constantly ; to 
sneak. 

SjwwIc, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 



GLOSSARY. 

Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 

Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looki; 

lucky, jolly. 
Soom, to swim. 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath. 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the 

ear. 
Souple, flexible ; swift. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds 

of oatmeal soured, &c. flummery. 
Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of any 

thing liquid. 
Sotvth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire.. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Spean, spane, to wean. 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, afte 

rain or thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the^country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
Spier't, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 

Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 

Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber. 

Sprattle, to scramble. 

Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 

Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scotish reel. 

Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something like 
rushes. 

Sprittie, full of sprit. 

Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit. 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery; wilUo'-wisp, 
or ignis fatuus. 

Spurtle, a stick, used in making oatmeal 
pudding or porridge. 

Squad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter Ito. water, as a wild 
duck, &e. 

Squattle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 

Stacher, to stagger. 

Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 

Stahoart, strong, stout. 

Stant, to stand; stan't, did stand. 

Stane, a stone. 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sting. 

Stank, did stink; a pool of standing water. 

Stap, stop. 

Stark, stout. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly. 

Staumrel, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

St aw did steal ; to surfeit. 



: 



GLOSSARY. 



177 



Stech, to cram the belly. 
_ Stechin, cramming. 

Steele, to shut ; a stitch. 
4 Steer, to molest ; to stir. 
Steeve, firm, compacted. 
Stell, a still. 
Sten, to rear as a horse. 
Sten't, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 
Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest. 
Stibble, stubble; stibble-rig, the reaper 

in harvest who takes the lead. 
Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 
Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp. 
Siimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester 

bushel. 
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
Stock, a plant or root of colewort, 
cabbage, &c. 
. Stockin, a stocking; throwing the stockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are put 
into bed, and the candle out, the former 
throws a stocking at random among the 
company, and the person whom it strikes 
is the next that will be married. 
Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 
Stocked, made up in shocks as corn. 
Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 
Stot, an ox. 
Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish with 

a handle. 
Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in 

motion. 
Stowlins, by stealth. 
Stown, stolen. 
Stoyte, to stumble. 
Strack, did strike. 
Strae, straw; to die a fair strae death, to 

die in bed. 
Straik, did strike. 
StraVcit, stroked. 
Strappan, tall and handsome. 
Straugkt, straight, to straighten. 
Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Stroan, to spout, to piss. 
Studdie, an anvil. 
Stumpie, diminutive of stump. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind; to 

walk sturdily ; huff, sullenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Sturt , trouble ; to molest. 
Sturtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 
Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind 

or water. 
Suthron, southern; an old name for the 

English nation. 
Swaira, sward. 



Suall'd, swelled. 

Swank, stately, jolly. 

Swankie, or swanker, a tight strappin 
young fellow or girl. 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 

Swat, did sweat. 

Swatch, a sample. 

Swats, drink ; good ale. 

Sweaten, sweating. 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead-sweer, extremely 
averse. 

Swoor, swore, did swear. 

Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 

Swirl, a curve ; an eddying blast, or pool ; 
a knot in wood. 

Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 

Swith, get away. 

Swither, to hesitate in choice ; an irreso- 
lute wavering in choice. 

Syne, since, ago ; then. 

T. 

TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving 

into the heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe ; three-tae'd, having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
TaJc, to take ; takin, taking. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 
Tarrow't, murmured. 
Tarry -breeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person. 
Tauted, or tautie, matted together ; spoken 

of hair or wool. 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be 

handled ; spokenof a horse, cow, &c. 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Tedding, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed to the horses 

while in the yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to take 

heed ; to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentie, heedful, cautious. 
Tentless, heedless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing, 

necessaries. 
Thae, these. 

Tliairms, small guts ; fiddle- strings. 
Thankit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatched* 
Thegither, together. 
Themsel, themselves. 
Z 



178 GLOSSARY. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited; spoken of 
a person's demeanour. 

Thir, these. 

Thirl, to thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Throng, throng ; a crowd. 

Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 

Throve, twenty-four sheaves or two 
shocks of corn ; a considerable num- 
ber. 

Throw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 

Thrawin, twisting, &c. 

Thrown, sprained, twisted ; contradicted. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion. 

Threshin, thrashing. 

Threteen, thirteen. 

Thristle, thistle, 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 

Throuther, pell-mell; confusedly. 

TJiud, to make a loud intermittent noise. 

Thumpit, thumped. 

Thysel, thyself. 

Till't, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise ; to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod , a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child. 

Toddlin, tottering. 

Toom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to 

blow a horn, &c. 
Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 
Towzie, rough, shaggy. 
Toy, a very old fashion of female head- 
dress. 
Toyte, to totter like old age. 
Transmugrify'd, transmigrated, metamor- 
phosed. 
Trashtrie, trash. 
Trews, trowsers. 
Trickie, full of tricks. 
Trig, spruce, neat. 
Trimly, excellently. 



Trow, to believe. 

Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointed ; to tryste, to make an 

appointment. 
Try't, tried. 
Tug, raw hide, of which in old times 

plough-traces were frequently made. 
Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 
Two, two. 
Twa-three, a few. 
'Twad, it would. 
Twal, twelve; twal~pennie worth, a small 

quantity, a penny-worth. 
N. B. One penny English is I2d Scotch. 
Twin, to part. 
Tyke, a dog. 



very, very 



U. 



UNCO, strange, uncouth 

great, prodigious. 
Uncos, news. 
Unkenn'd, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting, unwittingly, unknowingly 
Upo f , upon. 
Urchin, a hedge-hog. 



VAP'RIN, vapouring. 
Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a column, &c. 
Vitlle, corn of all kinds, food. 



W 



WA', wall ; wa's, walls. 

Wobstev, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wae, wo; sorrowful. 

Waefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Woesucks I or woes me ! alas ! O the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from 

the shuttle through the web ; woof. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice ; to choose. 
WaVd, chose, chosen. 



Walie, ample, large, 

jection of distress. 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu\ a belly-full. 
Wanchancie, unlucky. 
Wanrcstf'u', restless. 



jolly ; also an inter- 



Wark, work. 

WarJc-lume, a tool to work with. 

Warl, or warld, world. 

Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth. 

Warran, a warrant ; to warrant. 

Warst, worst. 

Warstl'd, or warsl'd, wrestled. 

Wastrie, prodigality. 

Wat, wet ; I wat, J wot, I know. 

Water-brose, brose made of meal and 

water simply, without the addition of 

milk, butter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught. 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 
Warn; worse ; to worst. 
Waur't, worsted. 
Wean, or weanie, a child. 
Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, 

many a different person. 
Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the stocking. See Stocking, p. 177. 
Wee, little ; wee things, little ones ; wee 

bit, a small matter. 
Weel, well; weelfare, welfare. 
Weet, rain, wetness. 
Weird, fate. 
We'se, we shall. 
Wha, who. 
Whaizle, to wheeze. 
Whalpit, whelped. 
Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of 

cheese, bread, &c. to give the strappado. 
Whare, where; Whare'er, wherever. 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk ; penny -wheep, 

small beer. 
Whase, whose. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
Whid, the motion of a hare, running but 

not frighted ; a lie. 
Whidden, running as a hare or cony. 
Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotchets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling 

appendages. 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 
Whisht, silence ; to hold one's whisht, to be 

silent. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whun-stane, a whin-stone. 
WhyUs, whiles, sometimes. 
Wi\ with. 
Wicht, wight, powerful, strong ; inventive ; 

of a superior genius. 



GLOSSARY. 

Wick 



179 

oblique 



to strike a stone in 
direction ; a term in curling. 

Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wijie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
wife. 

Wily art, bashful and reserved; avoiding 
society or appearing awkward in it; 
wild, strange, timid. 

Wimple, to meander. 

Wimpl't, meandered. 

Wimplin, waving, meandering. 

Win, to win, to winnow. 

Win't, winded as a bottom of y a rn . 

Win', wind ; win's, winds. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion ; to stagger, 
to reel. 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wizen' d, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 

Wonner, a wonder ; a contemptuous ap- 
pellation. 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made 
of withes or willows. 

Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the 
knee with a couple of loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or won- 
der. 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 

Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition 
exactly like a living person, whose ap- 
pearance is said to forebode the person's 
approaching death. 

Wrang, wrong ; to wrong. 

Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 

Wud-mad, distracted. 

Wumble, a wimble. 

Wyle, to beguile. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyte, blame ; to blame. 



Y. 



YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse. 
Ye ; this pronoun is frequently used/or thou. 
Yearns, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 
Year is used both for singular and plural 

years. 
Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 



180 



GLOSSARY. 



Yeilj barren, tnol gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the 

entrance into a farm-yard or field. 
Yill, Ale. 



Yird, earth. 

Yokin, yoking ; a bout. 

Yont, beyond. 

Yoursel, yourself. 

Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 

Yule, Christmas. 



THE 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 



WITH 



HIS GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE j 



CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS, 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTISH PEASANTRY 



BY DR CURRIE. 



' 



Dr. Currie's Dedication. 



TO 



CAPTAIN GRAHAM MOORE, 



OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



When you were stationed on our coast about 
twelve years ago, you first recommended to 
my particular notice the poems of the Ayr- 
shire ploughman, whose works, published for 
the benefit of his widow and children, I now 
present to you. In a distant region of the 
world, whither the service of your country 
has carried you, you will, 1 know, receive 
with kindness this proof of my regard ; not 
perhaps without some surprise on finding that 
I have been engaged in editing these volumes, 
nor without some curiosity to know how 1 
I was qualified for such an undertaking. 
These points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to 
the county of Dumfries, in the summer of 
1792, 1 had there an opportunity of seeing and 
conversing with Burns. It has been my for- 
tune to know some men of high reputation in 
literature, as well as in public life ; but never 
to meet any one who, in the course of a single 
interview, communicated to me so strong an 
impression of the force and versatility of his 
talents. After this I read the poems then 
published with greater interest and attention, 
and with a full conviction that, extraordinary 
as they are, they afford but an inadequate 
proof of the powers of their unfortunate au- 
thor. 

Four years afterwards, Burns terminated 
his career. Among those whom the charms 
of his genius had attached to him, was one 
with whom I have been bound in the ties of 
friendship from early life— Mr. John Syme of 
Ryedale. This gentleman, after the death 
of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a 
subscription for the support of the widow 
and children, to which their relief from im- 
mediate distress is to be ascribed ; and in 
conjunction with other friends of this vir- 
tuous and destitute family he projected the 
publication of these volumes for their benefit, 



by which the return of want might be preven- 
ted or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking an editor and 
biographer was wanting, and Mr. Syme's mo- 
desty opposed a barrier to his assuming an 
office, for which he was in other respects pe- 
culiarly qualified. On this subject he con- 
sulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting 
his objections, I offered him my assistance, 
but in vain. Endeavours were used to pro- 
cure an editor in other quarters without ef- 
fect. The task was beset with considerable 
difficulties, and men of established reputation 
naturally declined an undertaking to the per- 
formance of which, it was scarcely to be hoped 
that general approbation could be obtained 
by any exertion of judgment or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, my 
accustomed studies, and my occupations, were 
certainly little suited; but the partiality of 
Mr. Syme thought me in other respects not un- 
qualified ; and his solicitations, joined to those 
of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. 
Dunlop, and of other friends of the family of 
the poet, I have not been able to resist. To 
remove difficulties which would otherwise 
have been insurmountable, Mr. Syme and Mr. 
Gilbert Burns made a journey to Liverpool, 
where they explained and arranged the manu- 
scripts, and selected such as seemed worthy 
of the press. From this visit I derived a de- 
gree of pleasure which has compensated much 
of my labour. I had the satisfaction of re- 
newing my personal intercourse with a much 
valued friend, and of forming an acquaintance 
with a man, closely allied to Burns in talents 
as well as in blood, in whose future fortunes 
the friends of virtue will not, I trust, be unin- 
terested. 

The publication of these volumes has been 
delayed by obstacles which these gentlemen 



DEDICATION. 



could neither remove nor foresee, and which it 
would be tedious to enumerate. At length 
the task is finished. If the part which I have 
taken shall serve the interest of the family, 
and receive the approbation of good men, 1 
shall have my recompense. The errors into 
which I have fallen are not, I hope, very im- 
portant, and they will be easily accounted for 
by those who know the circumstances under 
tvhich this undertaking has been performed. 
Generous minds will receive the posthumous 
works of Burns with candour, and even par- 
tiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man 
of genius, published for the benefit of* his 
family— as the stay of the widow and the 
hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all 
topics are omitted in the writings, and avoid- 
ed in the life of Burns, that have a tendency 
to awaken the animosity of party. In 
perusing the following volumes no offence 
will be received, except by those to whom even 
the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; 
characters that will scarcely be found among 
'.hose who are educated to the profession of 
aims. Such men do not court situations of 
tUnger, or tread in the paths of glory. They 
v. ill not be found in your service, which, in 



our own days, emulates on another element 
the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, 
or of the Roman legion, and which has, lately 
made the shores of Europe and of Africa re- 
sound with the shouts of victory, from the 
Texel to the Tagus, and from the Tagus to 
the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received 
favourably by one who stands in the foremost 
rank of this noble service, and who deserves 
his station. On the land or on the sea, I 
know no man more capable of judging of the 
character or of the writings of this original 
genius. Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, 
cannot always occupy your leisure. These 
volumes may sometimes engage your attention 
while the steady breezes of the tropic swell 
your sails, and in another quarter of the earth 
charm you with the strains of nature, or awako 
in your memory the scenes of your early days. 
Suffer me to hope that they may sometimes 
recall to your mind the friend who addresses 
you, and who bids you — most affectionately — 
adieu ! 



J. CURRIE. 



Liverpool, 1st. May, 1800. 



CONTENTS 



TO THE 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, &c. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE 
SCOTISH PEASANTRY. 

Effects of the legal establishment of parochial 
schools, 1, — Of the church establishment, 3. 
— Of the absence of poor laws, ib. — Of the 
Scotish music and nationalsongs, 4. — Of the 
laws respecting marriage and incontinence, 
6. — Observations on the domestic and na- 
tional attachments of the Scots, . Page 7. 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by him- 
self, 10. — Narrative on the same subject, by 
his brother, and by Mr. Murdoch of Lon- 
don, his teacher, 16. — Other particulars of 
Burns while resident in Ayrshire, 26. — His- 
tory of Burns while resident in Edinburgh, 
including Letters to the Editor from Mr. 
Stewart and Dr. Adair, 34. — History of 
Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in 
Dumfries-shire 48. — History of Burns while 
resident in Dumfries 51. — His last Illness 
Death and Character,! with General Reflec- 
tions 55 

^Memoir respecting Burns, by a Lady, . 63 
Criticism on the Writings of Burns, includ- 
ing observations on poetry in the Scotish 
dialect, and some remarks on Scotish lit- 
erature, 6 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 

LETTERS. 

No, Page. 

1. To Mr. John Murdoch, Burns's form- 

er teacher ; giving an account of his 
present studies, and temper of mind, 87 

2. Extracts from MSS. Observations on 

various subjects, ... 88 



3 To Mr. Aiken. Written under distress 

of mind, 90 

4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her no- 

tice. Praise of her ancestor, Sir 
William Wallace, . . .91 

5. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Enclosing 

a poem on Miss A , . . 92 

6. Proclamation in the Name of the 

Muses, ib 

7. Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie. 

Encouraging the bard to visit Edin- 
burgh and print a new edition of his 
poems there, .... 93 

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie. Advice 

to the Bard how to conduct himself 
in Edinburgh, . . . . ib. 

9. To Mr. Chalmers. Praise' of Miss 

Burnet of Monboddo, . . .94 

10. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for 

his patronage, ib. 

11. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his sit- 

uation in Edinburgh, ib. 

12. To Dr. Moore. Grateful acknowledg- 

ments of Dr. M.'s notice of him in 
his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, . . 95 

13. From Dr. Moore. In answer to the 

foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet on 
the Bard by Miss Williams, . 96 

14. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Thanks for 

advice — reflections on his situation- 
compliments paid to Miss L , by 

Mr. Mackenzie, ... 96 

15. To Dr. Moore, .... 97 

16. From Dr. Moore. Sends the Bard a 

present of his " View of Society and 
Manners," &c ib. 

17. To the Earl of Glencairn. Grateful 

acknowledgments of kindness, 98 

18. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a 

letter of advice, ... ib. 

19. Extract concerning the monument 

erected for Fergusson by our Poet, 99 



VI 
No Page. 

20. To . Accompanying the foregoing, 100 

21. Extract from . Good advice, ib. 

22. To Mrs. Dunlop. Respecting his pros- 

pects on leaving Edinburgh, . 101 
2S. To the same. On the same subject, ib 

24. To Dr. Moore. On the same subject, 102 

25. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Reply to 

Criticisms, .... ib. 

26. To the Rev. Dr. Blair. Written on 

leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his 
kindness, ib. 

27. From Dr. Blair. In reply to the pre- 

ceding, 103 

28. From Dr. Moore. Criticism and good 

advice, ib. 

29. To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole. 

Enclosing the Humble Petition of 
Bruar water to the Duke of Athole, 104 

30. To Mr. G. Burns. Account of his 

Tour through the Highlands, . 105 
81. From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre. En- 
closing Latin Inscriptions with 
Translations, and the Tale of Ome- 
ron Cameron, .... ib. 

32. Mr. Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young. 

Introducing our Poet, . . 107 

33. Mr Ramsay to Dr. Blacklock. Anec- 

dotes of Scotish Songs for our 
Poet, 108 

34. From Mr. John Murdoch in London. 

In answer to No. I. . . ib. 

35. From Mr. , Gordon Castle. 

Acknowledging a song sent to Lady 
Charlotte Gordon, ... 109 

3G. From the Rev. J. Skinner. Some Ac- 
count of Scotish Poems, . . ib. 

37. From Mrs. Rose. Enclosing Gaelic 

Songs, with the music, . . 110 

38. To the Earl of Glencairn. Requests 

his assistance in getting into the Ex- 
cise, Ill 

39. To . Dalrymple, Esq. Congratula- 

tion on his becoming a poet. Praise 

of Lord Glencairn, . . . ib. 

40. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for 

friendship. Reflections on the po- 
etical character, . . . 112 

41. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written on recov- 

ery from sickness, . . . 113 

42. Extract to the Same. Defence of him- 

self, ib. 

43. To the Same— who had heard that he 

had ridiculed her, ... ib. 

44. To Mr. Cleghorn. Mentioning his 

having composed the first stanza of 
the Chevalier's Lament, . . ib. 

46. From Mr. Cleghorn In reply to the 
above. The Chevalier's Lament in 
full, in a note, .... 114 



CONTENTS. 



No. 

46. To Mrs. Dunlop. 
of his prospects, 
From the Rev. J. 



Page. 
Giving an account 

114 



47 



ib, 



116 



ib 

ib. 

117 



57 



58 



121 



ib. 
122 



Skinner. Enclos- 
ing two songs one by himself, the 
other by a Buchan ploughman: the 
songs printed at large, 

48. To Professor, D. Stuart. Thanks for 

his friendship, . . . * 

49. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks 

on Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's 
Odyssey, 

50. To the same. General Reflections, 

51. To the Same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Had- 

dington. Account of his marriage, 

52. To Mr. P. Hill. With a present of 

cheese, ib. 

53. To Mrs. Dunlop. With lines on a her- 

mitage, ..... 118 

54. To the Same. Farther account of his 

marriage, 119 

55. To the Same. Reflections on human 

life, 120 

56. To R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. A pe- 

tition in verse for a situation in the 
Excise, 

To Mr. P. Hill. Criticism on a poem, 
entitled, * An Address to Loch-Lo- 
mond/ 

To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains, 

59. To ****. Defence of the Family of 

the Stuarts. Baseness of insulting 
fallen greatness, . . . 123 

60. To Mrs. Dunlop. With the soldier's 

song — " Go fetch to me a pint of 
wine," 124 

61. To Miss Davies, a young Lady, who 

had heard he had been making a bal- 
lad on her, enclosing that ballad, 125 

62. From Mr. G. Burns. Reflections sug- 

gested by New Year's Day, . ib. 

63. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested 

by New Year's Day, . . 126 

64. To Dr. Moore. Account of his situa- 

tion and prospects, . 

65. To Professor D , Stewart. Enclosing 

poems for his criticism, 

66. To Bishop Geddes. Account of his si- 

tuation and prospects, 

67. From the Rev. P. Carfrae. Request- 

ing advice as to the publishing Mr. 
Mylne's poems, 

68. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections after a 

visit to Edinburgh, . 

69. To the Rev. P. Carfrae. In answer to 

No. 67 

70. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing a poem, 

71. To Mr. Hill. Apostrophe to Fru- 

gality, 

To Mrs. Dunlop. With a sketch of 



ib. 



127 



128 



ib. 

129 

130 
ib. 

131 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page. 

an epistle in verse to the Right Hon . 
C. J. Fox 

73. To Mr. Cunningham. With the first 

draught of the poem on a wounded 
Hare, 

74. From Dr. Gregory. Criticism of the 

poem on a wounded Hare, 

75. To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton. Ac- 

count of his situation, 

76. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on Re- 
. ligion, . . . . . 

77. From Dr. Moore. Good advice, 

78. From Miss J. Little. A poetess in 

humble life, with a poem in praise 
of our Bard, .... 

79. From Mr. **•»***. Some account of 

Fergusson, . ■ . . . 136 

80. To Mr. ******. In answer, . 137 

81. To Miss Williams. Enclosing a criti- 

cism on a poem of hers, . 

82. From Miss W. In xeply to the fore- 

going, 

83. To Mrs. Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco, 

84. From Dr. Blacklock. An epistle in 

verse, 

85. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to 

the above, . . 

86. To R. Graham, Esq. Enclosing 

some electioneering ballads, 

87. To Mrs. Dunlop. Serious and inter- 

esting reflections. 

88. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a 

book society among the farmers in 
Nithsdale, .... 

89. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. of Hoddam. 

Under a fictitious signature, enclos- 
ing a ballad, . 

90. To Mr. G. Burns. With a prologue, 

spoken on the Dumfries Theatre, 143 

91. To Mrs. Dunlop. Some account of 

Falconer, author of the Ship- 
wreck, ib. 

92. From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries 

after our Bard, . . . 144 

93. To Mr. Cunningham. In reply to the 

above, ib. 

94. To Mr. Hill. Orders for books, 14b 

95. To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the 

Lounger, and on the writings of Mr. 
Mackenzie, . . . . ib. 

96. From Mr. Cunningham. Account of 

the death of Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo, . . . . . 147 

97. To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present 

of Zeluco, .... 148 

98. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written under 

wounded pride, . . . 149 

99. To Mr. Cunningham. Aspirations 

after independence, . . . ib. 



132 



ib. 
133 

ib. 

134 
ib. 



135 



ib. 

138 
ib. 

139 

ib. 
ib. 
140 



141 



142 



VI 1 

Page. 
Poetical let- 



No. 

100. From Dr. Blacklock 

ter of friendship, . . . 149 

101. Extract from Mr. Cunningham. 

Suggesting subjects for our Poet's 
muse, 150 

102. To Mrs. Dunlop. Congratulations 

on the birth of her grandson, ib. 

103. To Mr. Cunningham. With an 

elegy on Miss Burnet, of Mon- 
boddo, 151 

104. To Mr. Hill. Indignant apostro- 

phe to Poverty, . . . ib . 

105. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism 

on Tamo'Shanter, . . 152 

106. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply 

to the above, . . . 153 

107. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing his 

elegy on Miss Burnet, . . ib, 

108. To Lady W. M. Constable. Ac- 

knowledging a present of a snuff 
box, ib. 

109. To Mrs. Graham of Fintry. Enclos- 

ing ' Queen Mary's Lament,' 154 

110. From the Rev. G. Baird. Request- 

ing assistance in publishing the 
poems of Michael Bruce, . ib. 

111. To the Rev. G. Baird. In reply to 

the above, .... 155 

112. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing Tam o' 

Shanter, &c, . . . ib. 

113. From Dr. Moore. With remarks 

on Tam o' Shanter, &c, . 156 

114. To the Rev. A. Alison. Acknow- 

ledging his present of the 'Essays 
on the Principles of Taste/ with 
remarks on the book, . . 157 

115. To Mr. Cunningham. With a Ja- 

cobite song, &c, . . . 158 

116. To Mrs. Dunlop. Comparison be- 

tween female attractions in high 
and humble life, . . . ib. 

117. To Mr. . Reflections on his own 

indolence, .... 159 

118. To Mr. Cunningham. Requesting 

his interest for an oppressed friend, ib. 

119. From the Earl of Buchan. Inviting 

over our bard to the Coronation of 
the Bust of Thomson on Ednam 
Hill, .. . . . . 160 

120. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply, ib. 

121 . From the Earl of Buchan . Propos- 

ing a subject for our poet's muse, ib. 

122. To Lady E. Cunningham. Enclos- 

ing ' The Lament for James, Earl 
ofGlencairn/ . . . IfJ 

123. To Mr. Ainslie. State of his mind 

after inebriation, . . ib. 

124. From Sir John Whiteford. Thanks 

for ' The Lament for James, Earl 

of Glencairn/ . . . 162 



V1I1 
No 
125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. 



Page. 
Criticism 
on the Whistle and the Lament, 
12G. To Miss Davies. Apology for ne- 
glecting her commands — moral re- 
flections, .... 

127. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing ' The 

Song of Death/ 

128. To Mrs. Dunlop. Acknowledging 

the present of a cup, 

129. To Mr. William Smellie. Introduc- 

ing Mrs. Riddel, . 

130. To Mr. W. NicoL Ironical thanks 

for advice, .... 

131. To Mr. Cunningham. Commissions 

his arms to be cut on a seal — moral 
reflections, .... 

132. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

meeting with Miss L B 

and enclosing a song on her, . 

133. To Mr. Cunningham. Wild apos- 

trophe to a Spirit ! 

134. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

family, .... 

135. To Mrs. Dunlop. Letter of condo- 

lence under affliction, 
13G. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a poem, 
entitled ' The Rights of Woman,' 

137. To Miss B of York. Letter of 

friendship, .... 171 

138. To Miss C . Character and tem- 

perament of a poet, 

139. To John M'Murdo, Esq. Repay- 

ing money, .... 

140. To Mrs. R . Advising her what 

play to bespeak at the Dumfries 
Theatre, .... 

141. To a Lady, in favour of a Player's 

Benefit, 

142. Extract to Mr. . On his pros- 

pects in the Excise, 

143. To Mrs. R , 

144. To the Same. Describes his melan- 

choly feelings, 

145. To the Same. Lending Werter, 

146. To the Same. On a return of inter- 

rupted friendship, . . ib. 

147. To the Same. On a temporary 

estrangement, ... ib. 

148. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on 

the happiness of Mr. O , . 175 

119. To Miss . Requesting the re- 
turn of MSS. lent to a deceased 

friend, -jb. 

U0. To Mr. Cunningham. Melancholy 
reflections—cheering prospects of 
a happier world, . . 176 

151. To Mis. R . Supposed to be 

written from ' The dead to the liv- 
ing,' ib. 



CONTENTS 
No. 
152. To 



162 



163 



ib. 



164 



ib. 



165 



166 



ib. 



167 



169 



170 



ib. 



ib. 



172 



ib. 



173 



174 

ib. 



177 
178 



179 



ib 



ib. 



Page. 

Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on 
the situation of his family if he 
should die — praise of the poem en- 
titled « The Task/ . - . 

153. To the Same, in London, 

154. To Mrs. R . Thanks for the 

Travels of Anacharsis, 

155. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of the 

Death of his Daughter, and of his 
own ill health, 

156. To Mrs. R . Apology for not 

going to the birth-night assembly, 

157. To Mr. Cunningham. Account of 

his illness and of his poverty — an- 
ticipation of his death, . ib. 

158. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing af- 

fords little relief, . . . 180 

159. To Mrs. Dunlop. Last farewell, ib. 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR. THOMSON 
AND MR. BURNS. 

1. Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns. De- 

siring the bard to furnish verses 
for some of the Scotish airs, and to 
revise former songs, . 

2. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising as- 

sistance, .... 

3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sending some 

tunes, 

4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' The Lea 

Rig/ and ' Will ye go to the Indies 
my Mary/ . . 

5. Mr. B. to Mr. T. W r ith « My wife's a 

winsome wee thing/ and ' O saw 
ye bonnie Leslie/ . . • . 184 

6. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Highland 

Mary/ 185 

7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and critical 

observations, . . . . ib. 

8. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an addi- 

tional stanza to ' The Lea Rig,' 

9. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Auld Rob 

Morris/ and ' Duncan Gray/ . 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With * O Poortith 
Cauld/ &c. and * G alia Water/ 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Desiring anecdotes 
on the origin of particular songs. 
Tytler of Woodhouselee — Pleyel — 
sends P. Pindar's ' Lord Gregory/ 
— Postscript from the Honourable 
A. Erskine, .... 

12. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Tytler's 

a: ecdotes, and means to give his 
own — Sends his own ' Lord Gregory, 

13. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With * Mary 

Morison/ .... 

14. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With « Wander- 

ing Willie/ . . . 



181 



182 



ib. 



183 



10 



11 



186 



ib. 



ib. 



187 



188 



ib. 



189 






CONTENTS. 



No, 
15. 

16. 
17. 



18. 



19. 



20. 
21. 



23. 
24. 
25. 



2T. 

28. 



29. 
30. 
31. 

32. 



33. 

34. 
35. 

36. 

37. 

38. 

39. 
40. 



Page. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With c Open the 
door to me, Oh !' . . 189 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Jessy ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. With a list of songs, 
and « Wandering Willie' alter- 
ed, ib. 

Mr B. to Mr. T. * When wild war's 
deadly blast was blawn/ and ' Meg 
o' the Mill/. . 190 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coila— Cri- 
ticism— Origin of ' The Lass o' 

- Patie's Mill,' . . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. . . . 191 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity requisite 
in a song — One poet should not 
mangle the works of another, . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Farewell thou 
stream that winding flows.' — Wishes 
that the national music may preserve 
its native features, ... 192 

Mr. T. to Mr B. Thanks and obser- 
vations, ib. 

Mr. B". to Mr. T. With ' Blithe hae I 
been on yon hill.' . . . 193 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With' O Logan 
sweetly didst thou glide,' ' O gin 
my love were yon red rose,' &c. ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note- 
Thanks, 194 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' There was a 
lass and she was fair,' ,. . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of 
pecuniary recompense — Remarks on 
songs, ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression, ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clarke, 196 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < Phillis the 
Fair,' . . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan— draw- 
ing from ' John Anderson my 
Jo,' ...... ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Had I a 
cave,' &c. — Some airs common to 
Scotland and Ireland, . . 197 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With < By Allan - 
stream I chanced to rove,' . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With « Whistle and 
I'll come to you my lad,' and ' Awa 
wi' your belles and your beau- 
ties,' 198 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With « Come let 
me take thee to my breast,' . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. « Dainty Davie,' ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted with the 
productions of Burns's muse, . 199 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With • Bruce to 
his troops at Bannockburn/ . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Behold the 
hour, the boat arrive,' . . ib. 



IX 

Page. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Observations on 
' Bruce to his troops,' . . 200 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Remarks on songs 
in Mr. Ts'. list— His own method of 
forming a song—' Thou hast left me 
ever, Jamie' — ' Where are the joys I 
hae met in the morning,' ' Auld lang 
syne', ..... 201 

43. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With a variation of 

' Bannockburn/ ... 202 

44. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser- 

vations, < ib. 

45. Mr. B. to Mr. T. On ■ Bannockburn' 

— Sends ' Fair Jenny,' . . 203 

46. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Deluded 

swain, the pleasure' — Remarks, 204 

47. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Thine am I, 

my faithful fair,' — * O condescend 
dear charming jnaid'— • The Night- 
ingale' — ' Laura — (the three last by 
G. Turnbull) ... 

48. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions- 

Thanks, 

49. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Husband, 

husband, cease your strife !' and 
' Wilt thou be my dearie ?' 

Mr. T. to Mr.B. Melancholy com- 
parison between Burns and Carlini 

Mr. Allan has begun a sketch 

from the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Al- 
lan—' Banks of Cree/ 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France 
— ' Here, where the Scotish muse 
immortal lives,' presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry, with a copy of 
Mr. Thomson's Collection, . 207 

53. Mr. T. to. Mr. B. Does not expect 

to hear from Pleyel soon, but de- 
sires to be prepared with the poe- 
try, 

54. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' On the seas 

and far away/ 

55. Mr. T. to Mr. B a Criticism, . 

56. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Ca' the 

yowes to the knowes/ 

Mr. B. to x\lr. T. With « She says 
she lo'es me best of a'/—' O let me 
in/ &c— Stanza to Dr. Max- 
well, 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising him to 
write a Musical Drama, . 

59. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been ex- 

amining Scotish collections — Ritsou 
— Difficult to obtain ancient melodies 
in their original state, 

60. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for pro- 



50. 



51. 



52. 



ib. 



206 



ib. 



ib. 



ib. 



57. 



58. 



ib. 

ib. 
ib. 

208 



ib. 



210 



X 

N'o. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

during a love-song — t Saw ye my 
Pliely'— Remarks and anecdotes — 
' How long and dreary is the night' 
— ' Let not woman e'er complain' 
— ' The Lover's morning Salute to his 
Mistress'—' The Auld man'— ' Keen 
blows the wind o'er Bonocht-head/ 
in a note, ...... 210 

CI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew 
the inspiring fair one — Ritson's 
Historical Essay not interesting — 
Allan— Maggie Lawder, . . 212 

C2. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has begun his 
Anecdotes, &c. * My Chloris mark 
how green the groves' — Love — ' It 
was the charming month of May' — 
• Lassie wi' the lint-white locks' — 
History of the air ' Ye banks and 
braes o' bonnie Doon' — James Mil- 
ler—Clarke—The black keys — In- 
stances of the difficulty of tracing 
the origin of ancient airs, . . ib. 

C3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three copies 

of the Scotish Airs. ... 214 

C4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With l O Philly 
happy be that day'— Starting note 
— ' Contented wi' little, and cantie 
wi' mair' — ' Canst thou leave me 
thus, my Katy ?'— (The Reply, « Stay 
my Willie, yet believe me,' in a note) 
— Stock and horn, . . . 215 

05. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise— Desires 
more songs of the humorous cast- 
Means to have a picture from ' The 
Soldier's return/ . . . 21G 

66. Mr. B. to Mf. T. With ' My Nan- 
nie's awa/ 217 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With * For a' 
that an' a* that/ and * Sweet fa's 
the eve on Craigie-burn/ . . ib. 

C8. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . . 218 
» Mr. B. to Mr. T. • O lassie, art thou 
sleeping yet?' and the Answer, ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dispraise of 

Ecclefechan, . . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . ib. 

72. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Address to the 

Woodlark' — * On Chloris' being jlV 
— -* Their groves o' sweet myrtle/ 
&c— ' Twas na her bonnie blue 
e'e/&c, .... 219 

73. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With Allan's de- 

sign from * The Cotter's Saturday 
Night/ . ib. 

74. Mr. B, to Mr. T. With ' How cruel 
• are the parents/ and * Mark yonder 

pomp of r-ostly fashion/ . . ib. 

75. Mr. B. tn Mr. T. Thanks for Al- 

lan's designs, ... ib. 



79. 



80. 



ib. 



ib. 



No. Page, 

76. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment, 220 

77. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an improve- 

ment in * Whistle, and I'll come to 
you my lad,' — f O this is no my ain 
lassie' — ■* Now spring has clad the 
grove in green' — ' O bonnie was 
yon rosy brier'—' 'Tis Friendship's 
pledge, my young, fair Friend/ ib . 

78. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing Dr. 

Brianton, .... 221 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Forlorn my 

love, no comfort near/ . . ib. 

Mi. B. to Mr. T. 'Last May a 
braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen' — ' Why, why tell thy lover/ 
a fragment, . . . . ib. 

81. Mr. T. to Mr. B., . . . 222 

82. Mr. T. to Mr. B. After an awful 

pause, ...... 

83. Mr. B. to. Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pin- 

dar, &c— '.Hey (for a lass wi'a to- 
cher/ 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has de- 
signed some plates for an octavo 
edition, 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by sick- 
ness, but pleased with Mr. Allan's 
etchings, .... 

86. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy, en- 

couragement, 

87. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Here's a 

health to ane I lo'e dear/ 

88. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr. 

Lewars — Has taken a faucy to re- 
view his songs — 'Hopes to recover, 

89. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the hor- 

rors of a jail, solicits the advance of 
five pounds, and encloses ' Fairest 
Maid on Devon banks/ . 

90. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— Ad- 

vises a volume of poetry to be pub- 
lished by subscription — Pope pub- 
lished the Iliad so, 

Letter containing some particulars of the 
History of the foregoing Poems, by 
Gilbert Burns, 

Letter to Captain Grose, 



84. 



85. 



b. 



ib. 



ib. 



ib. 



ib. 



225 
229 



APPENDIX. 



231 



No. I. . . . 

No. II. Including an extract of a Poem 
addressed to Burns by Mr. Telford, 234 

No. III. Letter from Mr. Gilbert Burns 
to the Editor, approving of his Life of 
his Brother ; with observations on the 
effects of refinement of taste on the 
labouring classes of men, . . 23S 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



TO THE LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Trough the dialect in which many of the 
happiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- 
posed be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputa- 
tion has extended itself beyond the limits of 
that country, and his poetry has been admired 
as the offspring of original genius, by persons 
of taste in every part of the sister islands. 
The interest excited by his early death, and 
the distress of his infant family, have been felt 
in a remarkable manner wherever his writings 
have been known : and these posthumous vol- 
umes, which give to the world his works com- 
plete, and which, it is hoped may raise his 
widow and children from penury, are printed 
and published in England. It seems proper, 
therefore, to write the memoirs of his life, 
not with the v'eW of their being read by 
Scotchmen only, but also by natives of Eng- 
land, and of other countries where the English 
language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
been represented to be, a Scotish peasant. To 
render the incidents of his humble story 
gererally intelligible, it seems, therefore, 
adviseable to prefix some observations on the 
character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged — a class of men distinguished by 
many peculiarities : by this means we shall 
form a more correct notion of the advantages 
with which he started, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted. A few observations 
on the Scotish peasantry will not, perhaps, 
be found unworthy of attention in other re- 
spects ; and the subject is, in a great measure, 
new. Scotland has produced persons of high 
distinction in every branch of philosophy and 
literature ; and her history, while a separate 
and independent nation, has been successfully 



explored. But the present character of the 
people was not then formed ; the nation then 
presented features similar to those which the 
feudal system and the catholic religion had 
diffused over Europe, modified, indeed, by 
the peculiar nature of her territory and cli- 
mate. The Reformation, by which such im- 
portant changes were produced on the national 
character, was speedily followed by the 
Accession of the Scotish monarchs to the 
English throne ; and the period which elapsed 
from that Accession to the Union has been 
rendered memorable, chiefly, by those bloody 
convulsions in which both divisions of the 
island were involved, and which, in a con- 
siderable degree, concealed from the eye of 
the historian the domestic history of the 
people, and the gradual variations in their 
condition and manners. Since the Union, 
Scotland, though the seat of two unsuccess- 
ful attempts to restore the House of Stuart to 
the throne, has enjoyed a comparative tran- 
quillity ; and it is since this period that the 
present character of her peasantry has been 
in a great measure formed, though the politi- 
cal causes affecting it are to be traced to the 
previous acts of her separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scotland will serve to convince an unpre- 
judiced observer, that they possess a degree 
of intelligence not generally found among the 
same class of men in the other countries of 
Europe. In the very humblest condition of 
the Scotish peasants, every one can read, and 
most persons are more or less skilled in writ- 
ing and arithmetic ; and, under the disguise 
of their uncouth appearance, and of their 
peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger will 
B 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



discover that they possess a curiosity, and 
have obtained a degree of information, corre- 
sponding to these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal 
provision made by the parliament of Scotland 
in 1646, for the establishment of a school in 
every parish throughout the kingdom, for the 
express purpose of educating the poor : a law 
which may challenge comparison with any 
act of legislation to be found in the records 
of history, whether we consider the wisdom 
of the ends in view, the simplicity of the 
means employed, or the provisions made to 
render these means effectual to their purpose. 
This excellent statute was repealed on the 
accession of Charles II. in 1660, together with 
all the other laws passed during the common- 
wealth, as not being sanctioned by the royal 
assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles 
and James, but was re-enacted, precisely in 
the same terms, by the Scotish parliament 
after the revolution, in 1696 ; and this is the 
last provision on the subject. Its effects on the 
national character may be considered to have 
commenced about the period of the Union ; 
and doubtless it co-operated with the peace 
and security arising from that happy event, 
in producing the extraordinary change in 
favour of industry and good morals, which the 
character of the common people of Scotland 
has since undergone.* 

The church-establishment of Scotland hap- 
pily coincides with the institution just men- 
tioned, which may be called its school estab- 
lishment. The clergyman being every where 
resident in his particular parish, becomes the 
natural patron and superintendent of the par- 
ish school, and is enabled in various ways to 
promote the comfort of the teacher, and the 
proficiency of the scholars. The teacher him- 
self is often a candidate for holy orders,who, 
during the long course of study and probation 
required in the Scotish church, renders the 
time which can be spared from his professional 
studies, useful to others as well as to him- 
self, by assuming the respectable character of 
a schoolmaster. It is common for the estab- 
lished schools, even in the country parishes of 
Scotland, to enjoy the means of classical 
instruction ; and many of the farmers, and 
some even of the cottagers, submit to much 
privation, that they may obtain, for one of 
their sons at least, the precarious advantage 
of a learned education. The difficulty to be 
surmounted arises, indeed, not from the ex- 

* See Appendix, No. I. Note A. 



pense of instructing their children, but from 
the charge of supporting them. In the country 
parish schools, the English language, writing, 
and accounts, are generally taught at the rate 
of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten 
or twelve shillings, per annum. In the towns 
the prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degree of instruction received 
at these seminaries , or to attempt any precise 
estimate of its effects, either on the individuals 
who are the subjects of this instruction, or on 
the community to which they belong. That it 
is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with seme individual 
exceptions, seems to be proved by the most 
striking and decisive appearance ; and it is 
equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit 
of emigration and of adventure so prevalent 
among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord 
Verulam, been denominated power ; by others 
it has with less propriety been denominated 
virtue or happiness : we may with confidence 
consider it as motion. A human being, in 
proportion as he is informed, has his wishes 
enlarged, as well as the means of gratifying 
those wishes. He may be considered as 
taking within the sphere of his vision a large 
portion of the globe on which we tread, and 
discovering advantage at a greater distance 
on its surface. His desires or ambition, once 
excited, are stimulated by his imagination ; 
and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer 
scope to the operation of this faculty, often 
acquire, in the mind of the youthful adven- 
turer, an attraction from their very distance 
and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater 
degree of instruction be given to the peasantry 
of a country comparatively poor, in the neigh- 
bourhood of other countries rich in natural 
and acquired advantages ; and if the barriers 
be removed that kept them separate, emigra- 
tion from the former to the latter will take 
place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as 
uniform as those by which heat diffuses itself 
among surrounding bodies, or water finds its 
level when left to its natural course. By the 
articles of the Union, the barrier was broken 
down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the ad- 
venturous natives of the north over the fertile 
plains of England ; and more especially, over 
the colonies which she had settled in the east 
and in the west. The stream of population 
continues to flow from the north to the south ; 
for the causes that originally impelled it 
continue to operate ; and the" richer country 
is constantly invigorated by the accession of 
an informed and hardy race of men, educated 



PREFATORY 

in poverty, and prepared for hardship and | 
danger ; patient of labour, and prodigal of 
life.* 

The preachers of the Reformation in Scot- 
land were disciples of Calvin, and brought 
with them the temper as well as the tenets of 
that celebrated heresiarch. The presbyterian 
form of worship and of church government 
was endeared to the people, from its being- 
established by themselves. It was endeared 
to them, also, by ihe struggle it had to main- 
tain with the Catholic and the Protestant 
episcopal churches ; over both of which, after 
a hundred years of fierce, and sometimes 
bloody contention, it finally triumphed, receiv- 
ing the countenance of government, and the 
sanction of law. During this long period of 
contention and of suffering, the temper of the 
people became more and more obsiinate and 
bigoted: and the nation received that deep 
tinge of fanaticism which coloured their pub- 
lic transactions, as well as their private 
virtues, and of which evident traces may be 
found in our own times. When the public 
schools were established, the instruction 
communicated in them partook of the religious 
character of the people. The Catechism of 
the Westminster Divines was the universal 
school-book, and was put into the hands of 
the young peasant as soon as he had acquired 
a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first 
exercise in the art of reading introduced him 
to the most mysterious doctrines of the Chris- 
tian faith. This practice is continued in oui 
own times. After the Assembly's Catechism, 
the Proverbs of Solomon, and the New and 
Old Testament, follow in regular succession ; 
and the scholar departs, gifted with the 
knowledge of the sacred writings, and receiv- 
ing their doctrines according to the interpre- 
tation of the Westminster Confession of 
Faith. Thus, with the instruction of infancy 
in the schools of Scotland, are blended the 
dogmas of the national church ; and hence the 
first and most constant exercise of ingenuity 
among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed 
in religious disputation. With a strong at- 
tachment to the national creed, is conjoined a 
bigoted preference of certain forms of wor- 
ship; the source of which could be often 
altogether obscure, if vs e did not recollect 
that the ceremonies of the Scotish Church 
were framed* in direct opposition, in every 
point, to those of the church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singular- 
ities of opinion and manners, which character- 

* See Appendix, No, I, Note B. 



REMARKS. 3 

ized the English sectaries in the last cen- 
tury, afforded a subject for the comic muse of 
Butler, whose pictures lose their interest, 
since their archetypes are lost. Some of the 
peculiarities common among the more rigid 
disciples of Calvinism in Scotland, in the 
present times, have given scope to the ridi- 
cule of Burns, whose humour is equal to 
Butler's and whose drawings from living 
manners are singularly expressive and exact. 
Unfortunately the correctness of his taste did 
not always correspond with the strength o£ 
his genius ; and hence some of the most ex- 
quisite of his comic productions are ren- 
dered unfit for the light.* 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedate- 
ness of conduct, and habits of thought and 
reflection. — These good qualities are not coun- 
teracted, by the establishment of poor laws, 
which, while they reflect credit on the benevo- 
lence, detract from the wisdom of the Eng- 
lish legislature. To make a legal provision 
for the inevitable distresses of the poor, who 
by age or disease are rendered incapable of 
labour, may indeed seem an indispensable 
duty of society ; and if, in the execution of a 
plan for this purpose, a distinction could be 
introduced, so as to exclude from its benefits 
those whose sufferings are produced by idle- 
ness or profligacy, such an institution would 
perhaps be as rational as humane. But to lay 
a general tax on property for the support of 
poverty, from whatever cause proceeding, is 
a measure full of danger. It must operate in 
a considerable degree as an incitement to 
idleness, and a discouragement to industry. 
It takes away from vice and indolence the 
prospect of their most dreaded consequences, 
and from virtue and industry their peculiar 
sanctions. In many cases it must render the 
rise in the price of labour, not a blessing, but 
a curse to the labourer ; w ho, if there be an 
excess in what he earns beyond his immediate 
necessities, may be expected to devote this 
excess to his present gratification ; trusting 
to the provision made by law for his own and 
his family's support, should disease suspend, 
or death terminate his labours. Happily, in 
Scotland, the same legislature which estab- 
lished a system of instruction for the poor, 
resisted the introduction of a legal provision 
for the support of poverty; the establishment 
of the first, and the rejection of the last, were 
equally favourable to industry and good 

* Holy Willie's Prayer ; Hob the Rhymer's Wel- 
come to his Bastard Child ; Epistle to J. Gowdie ; 
the Holy Tulzie, &c. 



4 PREFATORY 

morals ; and hence it will not appear surpris- 
ing, if the Scotish peasantry have a more 
than usual share of prudence and reflection, 
if they approach nearer than persons of their 
order usually do, to the definition of a man, 
that of " a being that looks before and after." 
These observations must indeed be taken with 
many exceptions : the favourable operation of 
the causes just mentioned is counteracted by 
others of an opposite tendency ; and the sub- 
ject, if fully examined, would lead to discus- 
sions of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established in 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much of 
" profane minstrelsy." Instead of being re- 
gulated by an instrument, the voices of the 
congregation are led and directed by a person 
under the name of a precentor ; and the peo- 
ple are all expected to join in the tune which 
he chooses for the psalm which is to be sung. 
Church-music is therefore a part of the educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they 
are usually instructed in the long winter 
nights by the parish school- master, who is 
generally the precentor, or by itinerant teach- 
ers more celebrated for their powers of voice. 
This branch of education had, in the last 
reign fallen into some neglect but was revived 
about thirty or forty years ago, when the 
music itself was reformed and improved. 
The Scotish system of psalmody is, however, 
radically bad. Destitute of taste or harmony, 
it forms a striking contrast with the delicacy 
and pathos of the profane airs. Our poet, it 
will be found, was taught church-music, in 
which, however, he made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally 
a part of the education of the Scotish peasan- 
try, will surprise those who have only seen 
this description of men : and still more those 
who reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism 
with which the nation is so deeply affected, 
and to which this recreation is so strongly 
abhorrent. The winter is also the season 
when they acquire dancing, and indeed al- 
most all their other instruction. They are 
taught to dance by persons generally of their 
own number, many of whom work at daily 
labour during the summer months. The 
school is usually a barn, and the arena for 
the performers is generally a clay floor. The 
dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end 
of a cloven stick, the other end of which is 
thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, 
country-dances, and horn-pipes, are here 
practised. The jig so much in favour 
among the English peasantry, has no place 



REMARKS, 

among them. The attachment of the people 
of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of 
the peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, young 
men and women walk many miles, in the cold 
and dreary nights of winter, to these country 
dancing-schools; and the instant that the 
violin sounds a Scotish air, fatigue seems to 
vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his 
features brighten with sympathy ; every nerve 
seems to thrill with sensation, and every artery 
to vibrate with life. These rustic performers 
are indeed less to be admired for grace, than 
for agility and animation, and their accurate 
observance of time. Their modes of dancing, 
as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally 
known. In our own day they have penetrated 
into England, and have established themselves 
even in the circle of royalty. In another 
generation they will be naturalized in every 
part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather pas- 
sion for dancing, among a people so deeply 
tinctured with the spirit and doctrines of Cal- 
vin, is one of those contradictions which the 
philosophic observer so often finds in national 
character and manners. It is probably to be 
ascribed to the Scotish music, which through- 
out all its varieties, is so full of sensibility ; 
and which, in its livelier strains, awakes those 
vivid emotions that find in dancing their na- 
tural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over 
the spirit of the established religion, has not, 
however, been obtained without long-con- 
tinued and obstinate struggles. The numerous 
sectaries who dissent from the establishment 
on account of the relaxation which they per- 
ceive, or think they perceive, in the church, 
from her original doctrines and discipline, uni- 
versally condemn the practice of dancing, and 
the Schools where it is taught ; and the more 
elderly and serious part of the people, of every 
persuasion, tolerate rather than approve these 
meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring 
music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgot- 
ten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to 
sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the 
rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, pro- 
bably impeded, but could not obstruct the pro- 
gress of its music : a circumstance that will 
convince the impartial inquirer, that this music 
not only existed previously to that aera, but 
had taken a firm hold of the nation; thus 
affording a proof of its antiquity, stronger than 



PREFATORY 

any produced by the researches of our anti- 
quaries. 

The impression which the Scotish music has 
made on the people, is deepened by its union 
with the national songs, of which various col- 
lections of unequal merit are before the public. 
These songs, like those of other nations, are 
many of them humorous ; but they chiefly treat 
of love, war, and drinking. Love is the sub- 
ject of the greater proportion. Without dis- 
playing the higher powers of the imagination, 
they exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human 
heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, and 
sometimes of delicate and romantic tenderness, 
not to be surpassed in modern poetry, and 
which the more polished strains of antiquity 
have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the 
rustic muse of Scotland, or of the greater num- 
ber of these love-songs themselves, it would 
be difficult to trace; they have accumulated 
in the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps 
impossible to give an arrangement of them in 
the order of their date, valuable as such a re- 
cord of taste and manners would be. Their 
present influence on the character of the nation 
is, however, great and striking. To them we 
must attribute, in a great measure, the roman- 
tic passion which so often characterizes the 
attachments of the humblest of the people of 
Scotland, to a degree, that if we mistake not, 
is seldom found in the same rank of society in 
other countries. The pictures of love and 
happiness exhibited in their rural songs, are 
early impressed on the mind of the peasant, 
and are rendered more attractive from the 
music with which they are united. They as- 
sociate themselves with his own youthful emo- 
tions ; they elevate the object as well as the 
nature of his attachment ; and give to the im- 
pressions of sense the beautiful colours of im- 
agination. Hence in the course of his pas- 
sion, a Scotish peasant often exerts a spirit of 
adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need 
not be ashamed. After the labours of the day 
are over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
mistress, perhaps at many miles distance, re- 
gardless of the length or the dreariness of the 
way. He approaches her in secresy, under 
the disguise of night. A signal at the door or 
window, perhaps agreed on, and understood 
by none but her, gives information of his ar- 
rival ; and sometimes it is repeated again and 
again, before the capricious fair one will obey 
the summons. But if she favours his addres- 
ses, she escapes unobserved, and receives the 
vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, 
or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of 



REMARKS. 5 

this kind are the subjects of many of the Scot- 
ish songs, some of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the art 
which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled: 
he knew and had practised all its mysteries. 
Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal 
even in the humblest condition of man in every 
region of the earth. But it is not unnatural 
to suppose that it may exist in a greater de- 
gree, and in a more romantic form, among the 
peasantry of a country who are supposed to be 
more than commonly instructed , who find in 
their rural songs expressions for their youthful 
emotions : and in whom the embers of passion 
are continually fanned by the breathings of a 
music full of tenderness and sensibility. Tho 
direct influence of physical causes on the at- 
tachment between the sexes is comparatively 
small, but it is modified by moral causes be- 
yond any other affection of the mind. Of 
these, music and poetry are the chief. Among 
the snows of Lapland, and under the burning 
sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening 
to his mistress, and every where he beguiles 
the weariness of his journey with poetry and 
song.* 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of 
a community, there is perhaps no single cri- 
terion on which so much dependence may be 
placed, as the state of the intercourse between 
the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- 
tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, 
the character and the influence of women rise 
in society, our imperfect nature mounts in the 
scale of moral excellence ; and, from the 
source of this single affection, a stream of 
felicity descends, which branches into a 
thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the 
field of life. Where the attachment between 
the sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage 
of our species is comparatively poor, and man 
approaches the condition of the brutes that 
perish. " If we could with safety indulge the 
pleasing supposition that Fingal lived and that 
Ossian sung,"t Scotland, judging from this 
criterion, might be considered as ranking high 
in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. 
To appreciate her situation by the same cri- 
terion in our own times, would be a delicate 
and a difficult undertaking. After consider- 
ing the probable influence of her popular songs 
and her national music, and examining how 
far the effects to be expected from these are 

* The North American Indians, among whom the at- 
tachment between the sexes is said to be weak, and love, 
in the purer sense of the woTd, unknown, seem nearly un- 
acquainted with the charms of poetry and music. Sas 
Weld's Tour. 

f Gibbon. 



6 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



supported by facts, the inquirer would also 
have to examine the influence of other causes, 
and particularly of her civil and ecclesiastical 
institutions, by which the character, and even 
the manners of a people, though silently and 
slowly, are often powerfully controlled. In 
the point of view in which we are considering 
the subject, the ecclesiastical establishments 
of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
vourable to purity of conduct. The dissolute- 
ness of manners among the catholic clergy, 
which preceded, and in some measure pro- 
duced the Reformation, led to an extraordi- 
nary strictness on the part of the reformers, 
and especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clergy had been carried 
to its greatest height— the intercourse between 
the sexes. On this point, as on all others con- 
nected with austerity of manners, the disciples 
of Calvin assumed a greater severity than those 
of the Protestant episcopal church. The 
punishment of illicit connection between the 
sexes, was throughout all Europe, a province 
which the clergy assumed to themselves ; and 
the church of Scotland, which at the Reforma- 
tion renounced so many powers and privileges, 
at that period took this crime under her more 
especial j urisdiction.* Where pregnancy takes 
place without marriage, the condition of the 
female causes the discovery, and it is on her, 
therefore, in the first instance, that the clergy 
and elders of the church exercise their zeal. 
After examination before the kirk-session, 
touching the circumstances of her guilt, she 
must endure a public penance, and sustain a 
public rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sab- 
baths successively, in the face of the congrega- 
tion to which she belongs, and thus have her 
weakness exposed, and her shame blazoned. 
The sentence is the same with respect to the 
male ; but how much lighter the punishment ! 
It is well known that this dreadful law, 
worthy of the iron minds of Calvin and of 
Knox, has often led to consequences, at the 
very mention of which human nature recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland is se- 
vere, the culprits have an obvious method of 
avoiding it afforded them by the law respect- 
ing marriage, the validity of which requires 
neither the ceremonies of the church, nor any 
other ceremonies, but simply the deliberate 
acknowledgment of each other as husband and 
wife, made by the parties before witnesses, or 
in any other way that gives legal evidence of 
such an acknowledgment having taken place. 
And as the parties themselves fix the date of 

• See Appendix, No. I. Note C. 



their marriage, an opportunity is thus given 
to avoid the punishment, and repair the con. 
sequences of illicit gratification. Such a de- 
gree of laxity respecting so serious a contract 
might produce much confusion in the descent 
of property, without a still farther indulgence 
but the law of Scotland legitimating all chil- 
dren born before wedlock, on the subsequent 
marriage of their parents, renders the actual 
date of the marriage itself of little conse- 
quence.* Marriages contracted in Scotland 
without the ceremonies of the church, are con- 
sidered as irregular, and the parties usually 
submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face 
of their respective congregations, which is not 
however necessary to render the marriage 
valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, 
was irregular, does not seem to have under- 
gone this part of the discipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are 
in many particulars favourable to a conduct 
among the peasantry founded on foresight and 
reflection, on the subject of marriage the re- 
verse of this is true. Irregular marriages, it 
may be naturally supposed, are often improvi- 
dent ones, in whatever rank of society they 
occur. The children of such marriages, poorly 
endowed by their parents, find a certain de- 
gree of instruction of easy acquisition ; but the 
comforts of life, and the gratifications of am- 
bition, they find of more difficult attainment in 
their native soil ; and thus the marriage laws 
of Scotland conspire with other circumstances, 
to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit 
of adventure, for which the people aro so re- 
markable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
ish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger 
the degree of their cultivation. In their own 
country, their industry is inferior to that of the 
same description of men in the southern divi- 
sion of the island. Industry and the useful 
arts reached Scotland later than England ; and 
though their advance has been rapid there 
the effects produced are as yet far inferior both 
in reality and in appearance. The Scotish 
farmers have in general neither the opulence 
nor the comforts of those of England, neither 
vest the same capital in the soil, nor receive 
from it the same return. Their clothing, their 
food, and their habitations, are almost every- 
where inferior. t Their appearance in these 

* See Appendix, No^ I. Note D. 
f These remarks are confined to the class of farmers ; 
the same corresponding inferiority will not be found in 
the condition of the cottagers and labourers, at least in the 
article of food, as those who examine this subject impar- 
tially -will soon discover 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



respects corresponds with the appearance of 
their country ; and under the operation of 
patient industry, both are improving. In- 
dustry and the useful arts came later into 
Scotland than into England, because the se- 
curity of property came later. With causes 
of internal agitation and warfare, similar to 
those which occurred to the more southern na- 
tion, the people of Scotland were exposed to 
more imminent hazards, and more extensive 
and destructive spoliation, from external war. 
Occupied in the maintenance of their inde- 
pendence against their more powerful . neigh- 
bours, to this were necessarily sacrificed the 
arts of peace, and at certain periods, the flower 
of their population. And when the union of 
the crowns produced a security from national 
wars with England, for the century succeed- 
ing, the civil wars common to both divisions 
of the island, and the dependence, perhaps 
the necessary dependence of the Scotish 
councils on those of the more powerful king- 
dom, counteracted this disadvantage. Even 
the union of the British nations was not, from 
obvious causes, immediately followed by all 
the benefits which it was ultimately destined 
to produce. At length, however, these bene- 
fits are distinctly felt, and generally acknow- 
ledged. Property is secure; manufactures and 
commerce increasing; and agriculture is ra- 
pidly improving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, 
the farmers are not, in general, enabled to 
make improvements out of their own capitals, 
as in England; but the landholders, who 
have seen and felt the advantages resulting 
from them, contribute towards them with a 
liberal hand. Hence property, as well as 
population, is accumulating rapidly on the 
Scotish soil ; and the nation, enjoying a great 
part of the blessings of Englishmen, and re- 
taining several of their own happy institutions, 
might be considered, if confidence could be 
placed in human foresight, to be as yet only 
in an early stage of their progress. Yet there 
are obstructions in their way. To the cultiva- 
tion of the soil are opposed the extent and the 
strictness of the entails ; to the improvement 
of the people, the rapidly increasing use of 
spirituous liquors,* a detestable practice, 
which includes in its consequences almost 
every evil, physical and moral. The peculi- 
arly social disposition of the Scotish peasantry 
exposes them to this practice. This disposi- 



* The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in Scotland 
is now upwards of £250,000 annually. In 1777, it did not 
reach £8,000. The rate of the duty has indeed been raised, 
but making every allowance, the increase of consumption 
ji must be enormoue. This is independent of the duty o& 
malt, &c, malt liquor, imported spirits, and wine. 



tion, which is fostered by their national songs 
and music, is perhaps characteristic of the na- 
tion at large. Though the source of many 
pleasures, it counteracts by its consequences 
the effects of their patience, industry, and 
frugality, both at home and abroad, of which 
those especially who have witnessed the pro- 
gress of Scotchmen in other countries, must 
have known many striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a 
standard among themselves, but are tried by 
the standard of the nation to which they are 
united. — Though their habits are far from 
being flexible, yet it is evident that their man- 
ners and dialect are undergoing a rapid 
change. Even the farmers of the present day 
appear to have less of the peculiarities of their 
country in their speech, than the men of letters 
of the last generation. Burns, who never left 
the island, nor penetrated farther into England 
than Carlisle on the one hand, or Newcastle 
on the other, had less of the Scotish dialect 
than Hume, who lived for many years in the 
best society of England and France : or per- 
haps than Robertson, who wrote the English 
language in a style of such purity ; and if he 
had been in other respects fitted to take a lead 
in the British House of Commons, his pronun- 
ciation would neither have fettered his elo- 
quence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the 
Scotish peasantry, is one which it is hoped 
will not be lost — the strength of their domestic 
attachments. The privations to which many 
parents submit for the good of their children, 
and particularly to obtain for them instruction, 
which they consider as the chief good, has al- 
ready beeu noticed. If their children live and 
prosper, they have their certain reward, not 
merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their 
prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the children may 
generally be considered as at the disposal of 
their parents : perhaps in no country is so 
large a portion of the wages of labour applied 
to the support and comfort of those whose 
days of labour are past. A similar strength 
of attachment extends through all the domestic 
relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable 
characteristic of his humble compeers ; he 
was also strongly tinctured with another 
striking feature which belongs to them, a 
partiality for his native country, of which 
many proofs may be found in his writings. 



8 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



This, it must be confessed, is a very strong 
and general sentiment among the natives of 
Scotland, differing, however, in its character, 
according to the character of the different 
minds in which it is found ; in some appear- 
ing a selfish prejudice, in others, a generous 
affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, 
indeed, common to all men. It is found 
among the inhabitants of every region of the 
earth, from the arctie to the antarctic circle, in 
all the vast variety of climate, of surface, 
and of civilization. To analyze this general 
sentiment, to trace it through the mazes of 
association up to the primary affection in 
which it has its source, would neither be a 
difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On the 
first consideration of the subject, we should 
perhaps expect to find this . attachment strong 
in proportion to the physical advantages of 
the soil ; but inquiry, far from confirming this 
supposition, seems rather to lead to an op- 
posite conclusion. — In those fertile regions 
where beneficent nature yields almost spon- 
taneously whatever is necessary to human 
wants, patriotism, as well as every other 
generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. 
In countries less richly endowed, where the 
comforts, and even necessaries of life must 
be purchased by patient toil, the affections of 
the mind, as well as the faculties of the un- 
derstanding, improve under exertion, and 
patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred vir- 
tues. Where it is necessary to combine for 
mutual defence, as well as for the supply of 
common wants, mutual good-will springs 
from mutual difficulties and, labours, the 
social affections unfold themselves, and ex- 
tend from the men with whom we live, to the 
soil on which we tread. It will perhaps be 
found indeed, that our affections cannot be 
originally called forth, but by objects capa- 
ble, or supposed capable, of feeling our sen- 
timents, and of returning them ; but when 
once excited, they are strengthened by ex- 
ercise, they are expanded by the powers 
cf imagination, and seize more especially 
on those inanimate parts of creation, which 
form the theatre on which we have first felt 
the alternations of joy, and sorrow, and first 
tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. If 
this reasoning be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even extin- 
guished in individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our 
general reasonings, to be strong among a 
people, in proportion to their social, and more 
especially to their domestic affections. In 
free governments it is found more active 
than in despotic ones, because as the in- 



dividual becomes of more consequence in 
the community, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him. In small states it 
is generally more active than in large ones, 
for the same reason, and also because the in- 
dependence of a small community being main- 
tained with difficulty, and frequently en- 
dangered, sentiments of patriotism tire more 
frequently excited. In mountainous coun- 
tries it is generally found more active than in 
plains, because there the necessities of life 
often require a closer union of the inhabitants ; 
and more especially, because in such coun- 
tries, though less populous than plains, the 
inhabitants, instead of being scattered equally 
over the whole, are usually divided into small 
communities on the sides of their separate 
valleys, and on the banks of their respective 
streams ; situations well calculated to call 
forth and to concentrate the social affections, 
amidst scenery that acts most powerfully on 
the sight, and makes a lasting impression on 
the memory. It may also be remarked, that 
mountainous countries are often peculiarly 
calculated to nourish sentiments of national 
pride and independence, from the influence of 
history on the affections of the mind. In such 
countries from their natural strength, inferior 
nations have maintained their independence 
against their more powerful neighbours, and 
valour, in all ages, has made its most success- 
ful efforts against oppression. Such countries 
present the fields of battle, where the tide of 
invasion was rolled back, and where the 
ashes of those rest, who have died in defence 
of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we 
have mentioned is doubtless more general and 
more permanent, where the scenery of a coun- 
try, the peculiar manners of its inhabitants 
and the martial achievements of their ances 
tors are embodied in national songs, and 
united to national music. By this combina- 
tion, the ties that attach men to the land of 
their birth are multiplied and strengthened : 
and the images of infancy, strongly associating 
with the generous affections, resist the in- 
fluence of time, and of new impressions ; they 
often survive in countries far distant, and 
amidst far different scenes, to the latest pe- 
riods of life, to soothe the heart with the 
pleasures of memory, when those of hope 
die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to 
us* why, among the natives of Scotland, even 
of cultivated minds, we so generally find a 
partial attachment to the land of their birth, 
and why this is so strongly discoverable in 
the writings of Burns, who joined to the high- 
er powers of the understanding the most sr- 



■ 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



dent affections. Let not men of reflection 
think it a superfluous labour to trace the rise 
and progress of a character like his. Born in 
the condition of a peasant, he rose by the 
force of his mind into distinction andinfluence, 
and in his works has exhibited "what are so 
rarely found, the charms of original genius. 
With a deep insight into the human heart, his 
poetry exhibits high powers of imagination — 
it displays, and as it were embalms, the pecu- 



liar manners of his country ; and it may be 
considered as a monument, not to his own 
name only, but to the expiring genius of an 
ancient and once independent nation. In re- 
lating the incidents of his life, candour will 
prevent us from dwelling invidiously on those 
failings which justice forbids us to conceal ; 
we will tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, 
and respect the laurels that shelter his un- 
timely grave. 



THE LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS, 



BY DR. CURRIE. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
himself a farmer there ; but, having been un- 
successful, he was about to emigrate to 
Jamaica. He had previously, however, at- 
tracted some notice by his poetical talents in 
the vicinity where he lived ; and having pub- 
lished a small volume of his poems at Kilmar- 
nock, this drew upcn him more general atten- 
tion. In consequence of the encouragement 
he received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and 
there published by subscription, an improved 
and enlarged edition of his poems, which 
met with extraordinary success. By the pro- 
fits arising from the sale of this edition, he was 
enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; 
and having married a person to whom he had 
been long attached, he retired to devote the 
remainder of his life to agriculture. He was 
again, however, unsuccessful; and, abandon- 
ing his farm, he removed into the town of 
Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office in 
the excise, and where he terminated his life, 
in July 1796, in his thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr. Moore, well known 
for his Views of Society and Manners on the Con- 
tinent of Europe , Zeluco, and various other 
works. To this gentleman our poet addressed 
a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, 
giving a history of his life, up to the period of 
his writing. In a composition never intended 
to see the light, elegance, or perfect correctness 
of composition will not he expected. These, 
however, will be compensated by the oppor- 
tunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the inci- 
dents of his life, unfold the peculiarities of his 
character with all the careless vigour and 
o;:en sincerity of his mind. 



Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 



Sir, 



" For some months past I have been ram- 
bling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering complaints, originating, 
as I take it, in the stomach, To divert my 
spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I 
have taken a whim to give you a history of 
myself. My name has made some little noise 
in this country; you have done me the honour 
to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; 
and I think a faithful account of what char- 
acter of a man I am, and how I came by that 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle 
moment. I will give you an honest narrative ; 
though I know it will be often at my own ex- 
pense ; — for 1 assure you, Sir, I have, like So- 
lomon, whose character, excepting in the tri- 
fling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I re- 
semble, — I have, I say, like him, turned my 
eyes to behold madness and folly, and, like him, 
too frequently shaken hands with their intoxi- 
cating friendship.*** After you have perused 
these pages, should you think them trifling 
and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, 
that the poor author wrote them under some 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from 
suspicion that he was doing what he ought not 
to do : a predicament he has more than once 
been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got ac- 
quainted in the Herald's Office ; and, looking 
through that granary of honours, I there found 
almost every name in the kingdom : but for 
me, 

« My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite disowned 
me. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



11 



" My fatncr was of the ncrlh of Scotland, 
the son of a farmer, and was thrown by fearly 
misfortunes on the world at large ; where, 
after many years' wanderings and sojournings, 
he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- 
vation and experience, to which I am indebted 
for most of my little pretensions to wisdom.— 
I have met with few who understood men, 
their manners, and their ways, equal to him ; 
but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and head- 
long ungovernable irascibility, are disquali- 
fying circumstances ; consequently I was born 
a very poor man's son. For the first six or 
seven years of my life, my father was gardener 
to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the 
neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in 
that station, I must have marched off to be 
one of the little underlings about a farm- 
house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer 
to have it in his power to keep his children 
under his own eye till they could discern be- 
tween good and evil ; so with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured on 
a small farm on his estate. At those years I 
was by no means a favourite with any body. 
I was a good deal noted for a retentive 
memory, a stubborn, sturdy something in my 
disposition, and an enthusiastic ideot* piety. 
I say ideot piety, because I was then but a 
child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some 
thrashings, I made an excellent English 
scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven 
years of age, I was a critic in substantives, 
verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish 
days, too, I owed much to an old woman who 
resided in the family, remarkable for her 
ignorance, credulity and superstition. She 
had, I suppose, the largest collection in the 
country of tales and songs, concerning devils, 
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, en- 
chanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery 
This cultivated the latentseeds of poetry ; but 
had so strong an effect on my imagination 
th at »to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious 
places : and though nobody can be more 
sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it 
often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off 
these idle terrors. The earliest composition 
that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The 
Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's 
oeginning, How are thy servants blest, O 
Lord I I particularly remember one half- 
stanza, which was music to my boyish ear — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the oroken wave.—'* 

* Ideot for idiotic. 



I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-bodks. The two 
firsrhooks I ever read in private, and which 
gave me more pleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were The life of Hannibal, and 
The History of Sir William Wallace. Hanni- 
bal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I 
used to strut "in raptures up and down after 
the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish 
myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the 
story of Wallace poured a Scotish prejudice 
into my veins, which will boil along there 
till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest. 

" Polemical divinity about this time was 
putting the country half-mad; and I, am- 
bitious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays between sermons, at funerals, &c. 
used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Cal- 
vinism with so much heat and indiscretion, 
that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against 
me, which has not ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not 
checked by some modifications of spirited 
pride, was, like our catechism-definition of 
infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed 
several connexions with other younkers who 
possessed superior advantages, the youngling 
actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts 
in which they were shortly to appear on the 
stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to 
drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly 
at this green age that our young gentry have 
a just sense of the immense distance between 
them and their ragged play-fellows. It takes 
a few dashes into the world, to give the young 
great man that proper, decent, unnoticing dis- 
regard for the poor, insignificant, stupid 
devils, the mechanics and peasantry around 
him, who were perhaps born in the same vil- 
lage. My young superiors never insulted the 
clouterly appearance of my ploughboy carcass, 
the two extremes of which were often exposed 
to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. 
They would give me stray volumes of books : 
among them, even then, I could pick up some 
observations ; and one, whose heart I am sure 
not even the Munny Begvm scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Partiug 
with these my young friends and benefactors 
as they occasionally went off for the East or 
West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; 
but I was soon called to more serious evils. 
My father's generous master died ; the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the 
misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, 
who sat for the picture I have drawn of one 



12 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



in my Tale of Twa Dogs. My father was ad- 
vanced in life when he married ; I was the 
eldest of seven children ; and he worn out 
by early hardships, was unfit for labour. My 
father's spirit was soon irritated, but not 
easily broken. There was a freedom in his 
lease in two years more ; and, to weather 
these two years, we retrenched our expenses. 
We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous 
ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest 
to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash 
the corn. A novel writer might perhaps have 
viewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; 
but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at 

the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent 

threatening letters, which used to set us all in 
tears. 

" This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of 
a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year; a 
little before which period I first committed 
the sin of Rhyme. You*know our country 
custom of coupling a man and woman together 
as partners in the labours of harvest. In my 
fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching 
creature, a year younger than myself. My 
scarcity of English denies me the power of 
doing her justice in that language ; but you 
know the Scotish idiom— she was a bonnie, 
sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, 
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in 
that delicious passion, which in spite of acid 
disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first 
of human joys, our dearest blessing here be- 
low! How she caught the contagion I cannot 
tell : you medical people talk much of infec- 
tion from breathing the same air, the touch, 
&c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed I did not know myself why I liked so 
much to loiter behind with her, when returning 
in the evening from our labours; why the 
tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill 
like an /Eolian harp ; and particularly why 
my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I 
looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle stings and thistles. 
Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she 
sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, 
to which 1 attempted giving an embodied 
vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous 
as to imagine that I could make verses like 
printed ones, composed by men who had 
Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, 
which was said to be composed by a small 
country laird's son, on one of his father's 
maids, with whom he was in love ! and I saw 
no reason why I might not rhyme as well as 



he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep t 
and cast peats, his father living in the moor- 
lands, he had no more scholar-craft than my- 
self.* 

" Thus with me began love and poetry : 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature of the bar- 
gain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease, otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord as to 
terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a jail by a con- 
sumption, which, after two years' promises, 
kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to 
where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm, that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's 
geographical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners, of literature, 
and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These 
with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, The Pantheon, 
Locke' x Essay on the Human Understanding, 
Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener s Directory, Bayle's Lecture's, 
Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of 
English Songs, and Hervey's Meditations, had 
formed the whole of my reading. The col- 
lection of Songs was my vade mecum. I pored 
over them driving my cart, or walking to 
labour, song by song, verse by verse : care- 
fully noting the true tender, or sublime, from 
affectation and fustian. I am convinced I 
owe to this practice much of my critic craft, 
such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my man- 
ners a brush, I went to a country dancing 
school. — My father had an unaccountable 
antipathy against these meetings ; and my 
going was, what to this moment I repent, in 

* See Appendix, No. II. Note A. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



IS 



opposition to his wishes. My father, as I 
said before, was subject to strong passions ; 
from that instance of disobedience in ms he 
took a sort of dislike to me, which 1 believe 
was one cause of the dissipation which 
marked my succeeding years. I say dissipa- 
tion, comparatively with the strictness and 
sobriety, and regularity of presbyterian 
country life ; for though the Will o' Wisp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained 
piety and virtue kept me for several years 
afterwards within the line of innocence. The 
great misfortune of my life was to want an 
aim. I had felt early some stirrings of am- 
bition, but they were the blind gropings of 
Homer's Cyclop round the walls of his cave. 
I saw my father's situation entailed on me 
perpetual labour. The only two openings by 
which I could enter the temple of Fortune, 
was the gate of niggardly economy, or the 
path of little chicaning bargain-making. The 
first is so contracted an aperture, I never could 
squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always 
hated — there was contamination in the very 
entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in 
life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity as from a pride of 
observation and remark ; a constitutional 
melancholy or hypochondriasm that made me 
fly from solitude ; add to these incentives to 
social life, my reputation for bookish know- 
ledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudi- 
ments of good sense ; and it will not seem 
surprising that I was generally a welcome 
guest where 1 visited, or any great wonder 
that, always where two or three met together, 
there was I among them. But far beyond all 
other impulses of my heart, was un penchant a 
Vadorable moitie du genre humain. My heart 
was completely tinder, and was eternally 
lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as 
in every other warfare in this world my for- 
tune was various, sometimes I was received 
with favour, and sometimes I was mortified 
with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap- 
hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set 
absolute want at defiance ; and as 1 never 
cared farther for my labours than while I was 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad sel- 
dom carries on a love-adventure without an 
assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, 
zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended 
me as a proper second on these occasions; 
and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in 
being in the secret of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in 



Europe. — The very goose feather in my hand 
seems to know instinctively the well-worn 
path of my imagination, the favourite theme of 
my song : and is with difficulty restrained 
from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the 
love-adventures of my compeers, the humble 
inmates of the farm house, and cottage ; but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, 
baptize these things by the name of Follies. 
To the sons and daughters of labour and po- 
verty, they are matters of the most serious 
nature; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen 
interview, the tender farewell, are the great- 
est and most delicious parts of their enjoy- 
ments. « 

" Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alterations in my mind and man- 
ners, was that I spent my nineteenth summer 
on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
home at a noted school, to learn mensuration, 
surveying, dialling, &c. in which I made a 
pretty good progress. But I made a greater 
progress in the knowledge of mankind. The 
contraband trade was at that time very suc- 
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me to 
fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes 
of swaggering, riot and roaring dissipation 
were till this time new to me ; but I was no 
enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt 
to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a 
drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high 
hand with my geometry, till the sun entered 
Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in 
my bosom, when a charming filette who lived 
next door to the school, overset my trigo- 
nometry, and set me off at a tangent from the 
sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on 
with my sines and co-sines for a few days 
more; but, stepping into the garden one 
charming noon to take the sun's altitude,4here 
I met my angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower " 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her; 
and the two lasf nights of my stay in the coun- 
try, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of 
this modest and innocent girl had kept me 
guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably im- 
proved. My reading was enlarged with the 
very important addition of Thomson's and 
Shenstone's Works ; 1 had seen human nature 



knowinp the intrigues of half the courts of i in anew phasis ; and I engaged several of my 



14 



school-fellows to keep up a literary corres- 
pondence with me. This improved me in 
composition. I had met with a collection of 
letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and 
I pored over them most devoutly; I kept 
copies of any of my own letters that pleased 
me ; and a comparison between them and the 
composition of most of my correspondents, 
flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so 
far, that though I had not three farthings' 
worth of business in the world, yet almost 
every post brought me as many letters as if I 
had been a broad plodding son of day-book 
and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Vive V amour, et 
rive la bagatelle , were my sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition of two more authors to my 
library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
M'Kenzie— Tristram Shandy and The Man of 
Feeling— •were my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darling walk for my mind ; but it 
was only indulged in according to the humour 
of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or 
more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, 
as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, 
and dismissed the work as it bordered on 
fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, 
raged like so many devils, till they got vent 
in rhyme ; and then the conning over my ver- 
ses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! None 
of the rhymes of those days are in print, ex- 
cept Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed 
pieces; The Death of Poor Mailie, John Bar- 
leycorn, and songs first, second, and third. 
Song second was the ebullition of that pas 
sion which ended the forementioned school 
business. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

the rear of this infernal file, was my consti- 
tutional melancholy, being increased to such 
a degree, that for three months I was in a 
state of mind scarcely to be envied by tha 
hopeless wretches who have got their mitti- 
mus— Depart from me, ye accursed / 



" From this adventure I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 
ed with a young fellow, a very noble charac- 
ter, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was 
the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great 
man in the neighbourhood taking him under 
his patronage, gave him a genteel education, 
with a view of bettering his situation in life. 
The patron dying just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in 
despair went to sea ; where after a variety of 
good and ill fortune, a little before I was ac- 
quainted with him, he had been set on shore 
by an American privateer, on the wild coast 
of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I can- 
not quit this poor fellow's story without add- 
ing, that he is at this time master of a large 
West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. 



" My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly through whim, and part- 
ly that I wished to set about doing something 
in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbour- 
ing town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This 
was an unlucky affair. My ***; and to 
finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, 
and burnt to ashes ; and I was left like a true 
poet, not worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst 
of all he was visibly far gone in a consump- 
tion ; and to crown my distresses, a belle fille 
whom I adored, and who had pledged ber 
soui to meet me in the field of matrimony, 
Jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mor- 
tification. The finishing evil that brought up 



" His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I 
loved and admired him to a degree of en- 
thusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. 
In some measure I succeeded ; I had pride 
before, but he taught it to flow in proper chan- 
nels. Hisknowledge of the world was vastly 
superior to mine, and I was all attention to 
learn. He was the only man I ever saw who 
was a greater fool than myself, where woman 
was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit 
love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto 
I had regarded with horror. Here his friend- 
ship did me a mischief; and the consequence 
was that soon after I resumed the plough, I 
wrote the Poet's Welcome* My reading only 
increased, while in this town, by two stray 
volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of 
novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces 
that are in print, I had given up ; but meet- 
ing with Fergusson's Scotish Poems I strung 
anew my wildly sounding lyre with emulating 
vigour. When my father died, his all went 
among the hell-hounds that prowl in the 
kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to 
collect a little money in the family amongst 
us, with which, to keep us together, my 
brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My 
brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, 

Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard 
Child. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



15 



as well as my social and amorous madness ; 
but, in good sense, and every sober qualifica- 
tion, he was far my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolu- 
tion, Come, go to , I will be wise ! I read farm- 
ing books ; I calculated crops : I attended 
markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, 
and the world, and the flesh, 1 believe I should 
have been a wise man ; but the first year, 
from unfortunately buying bad seed, the se- 
cond, from a late harvest, we lost half our 
crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I 
returned, like the dog to his vomit, and the sow 
that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire.* 

I now began to be known in the neighbour- 
hood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my 
poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bur- 
lesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis 
persona in my Holy fair. I had a notion myself, 
that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who 
was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who was the author of 
it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they 
held several meetings to look over their spirit- 
ual artillery, if haply any of it might be 
pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily 
for me, my wanderings led me on another 
side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest 
metal. This is the unfortunate story that 
gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament. 
This was a most melancholy affair, which I 
cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very 
nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualifications for a place among those who 
have lost the chart, and mistaken the recko- 
ning of Rationality .f I gave up my part of 
the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little prepar- 
ation was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, 
I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed 
my productions as impartially as was in my 
power : I thought they had merit ; and it was 
a delicious idea that I should be called a 
clever fellow, even though it should never 
reach my ears — a poor negro driver ;— or per- 
haps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and 
gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, 
that pauvre inconnu as I then was, 1 had pretty 

* See Appendix, No. II. Note B. 
\ An explanation of this" will be found hereafter. 



nearly as high an idea of myself and of my 
works as I have at this moment, when the 
public has decided in their favour. It ever 
was my opinion, that the mistakes and blun- 
ders, both in a rational and religious point of 
view, of which we see thousands daily guilty , 
are owing to their ignorance of themselves.— 
To know myself, had been all along my con- 
stant study. I weighed myself alone ; I ba- 
lanced myself with others ; I watched every 
means of iu formation, to see how much ground 
I occupied as a man and as a poet ; I studied 
assiduously Nature's design in my forma- 
tion — where the lights and shades in my char- 
acter were intended. I was pretty confident 
my poems would meet with some applause ; 
but, at the worst the roar of the Atlantic 
would deafen the voice of censure, and the 
novelty of West-Indian scenes make me for- 
get neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
of which I had got subscriptions for about 
three hundred and fifty. — My vanity was 
highly gratified by the reception I met with 
from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all 
expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. 
This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I 
was master of nine guineas, the price of 
wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steer- 
age-passage in the first ship that was to sail 
from the Clyde ; for, 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 



" I had been for some days sculking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a 
jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled 
the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I 
had taken the farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock; I had 
composed the last song 1 should ever measure 
in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering 
fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a 
friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by 
opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. 
The Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for 
whose applause 1 had not dared to hope. 
His opinion that I would meet with en- 
couragement in Edinburgh for a second edi- 
tion, fired me so much, that away 1 posted for 
that city, without a single acquaintance, or 
a single letter of introduction. The baneful 
star which had so long shed its blasting in- 
fluence in my zenith, for once made a revolu- 
tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence 
placed me under the patronage of one of the 
noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Ou- 
blie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je I'oublief 



16 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; 1 mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. W hether I have 
profited, time will show. 



" My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter 1 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is 
requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- 
row."* 



At the period of our poet's death, his broth- 
er, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had 
himself written the foregoing narrative of his 
life while in Ayrshire ; and having been ap- 
plied to by Mrs. Dunlop for some memoirs of 
his brother, he complied with her request in a 
letter, from which the following narrative is 
chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after- 
wards saw the letter of our poet to X)r. Moore 
he made some annotations upon it, which shall 
be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two 
miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few 
hundred yards of Alloway church, which his 
poem of Tarn o' Shanter has rendered immor- 
tal.t The name which the poet and his bro- 
ther modernized into Burns, was originally 
Burnes, or Burness. Their father, William 
Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincar- 
dineshire, and had received the education com- 
mon in Scotland to persons in his condition of 
life ; he could read and write, and had some 
knowledge of arithmetic. His family having 
fallen into reduced circumstances, he was 
compelled to leave his home in his nineteenth 
year, and turned his steps towards the south 
in quest of a livelihood. The same necessity 
attended his elder brother Robert. " I have 
often heard my father," says Gilbert Burns, in 



• There are various copies of this letter in the 
author's hand-writing ; and one of these, evidently 
corrected, is in the book in which he had copied sev- 
eral of his letters. This has been used for the press, 
with .some omissions, and one slight alteration sug- 
gested by Gilbert Barns. 

t This house is on the right-hand side of the road 
from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When the poet's 
father afterward* removed to Tarbolton parish, he 
sold his leasehold right in this house, and a few acres 
of laud adjoining, to the corporation of shoemakers in 
Ayr. It is now a country ale-house. 



his letter to Mrs. Dunlop, " describe the an- 
guish of mind he felt when they parted on the 
top of a hill on the confines of their native 
place, each going off his several way in search 
of new adventures, and scarcely knowing 
whither he went. My father undertook to 
act as a gardener, and shaped his course to 
Edinburgh, where he wrought hard when he 
could get work, passing through a variety of 
difficulties. Still, however, he endeavoured 
to spare something for the support of his aged 
parents : and I recollect hearing him mention 
his having sent a bank-note for this purpose, 
when money of that kind was so scarce in 
Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew how 
to employ it when it arrived." From Edin- 
burgh, William Burnes passed westward into 
the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself 
as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, with 
whom he lived two years ; then changing his 
service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At 
length, being desirous of settling in life, he 
took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land 
from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the 
view of commencing nurseryman and public 
gardener ; and, having built a house upon it 
with his own hands, married, in December 
1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, 
who still survives. The first fruit of this mar- 
riage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, 
born on the 25th of January, 1759, as has al- 
ready been mentioned. Before William Burnes 
had made much progress in preparing his nur- 
sery, he was withdrawnfrom that undertaking 
by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased the estate of 
Doonholm, in the immediate neighbourhood, 
and engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; 
and this was his situation when our poet, was 
born. Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, 
he lived in his own house, his wife managing 
her family and her little dairy, which consisted 
sometimes of two, sometimes of three milch 
cows; and this state of unambitious content 
continued till the year 1766. His son Robert 
was sent by him in his sixth year, to a school 
at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught 
by a person of the name of Campbell : but this 
teacher being in a few months appoin ted master 
of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in 
conjunction with some other heads of families, 
engaged John Murdoch in his stead. The 
education of our poet, and of his brother Gil- 
bert, was in common ; and of their proficiency 
under Mr. Murdoch we have the following 
account : " With him we learnt to read Eng- 
lish tolerably well, * and to write a little. He 
taught us, too, the English grammar. I was 
too young to profit much from his lessons in 

• Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. 



THE LIFE OP 3UIINS. 



grammar ; but Robert made some proficiency 
in it— a circumstance of considerable weight 
in the unfolding of his genius and character ; 
as he soon became remarkable for the fluency 
and correctness of his expression, and read 
the few books that came in his way with much 
pleasure and improvement ; for even then he 
was a reader when he could get a book. 
Murdoch, whose library at that time had no 
great variety in it, lent him The Life of Han- 
nibal, which was the first book he read (the 
schoolbook excepted,) and almost the only one 
he had an opportunity of reading while he was 
at school : for The Life of Wallace, which he 
classes with it in one of his letters to you, he 
did not see for some years afterwards, when 
he borrowed it from the blacksmith who shod 
our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, 
by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. 
In consequence of this, with a view of promot- 
ing his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a 
farm, of which we have the following ac- 
count : 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres * 
(between eighty and ninety English statute mea- 
sure,) the rent of which was to be forty pounds 
annually for the first six years, and afterwards 
forty-five pounds. My father endeavoured to 
sell his lease-hold property, for the purpose of 
stocking this farm, but at that time was unable, 
and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds 
for that purpose. He removed to his new 
situation at Whitsuntide, 17€6. It was, I 
think, not above two years after this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of 
the country ; and there being no school near 
us, and our little services being useful! on the 
farm, my father undertook to teach us arith- 
metic in the winter evenings, by candle-light ; 
and in this way my two eldest sisters got all 
the education they received. I remember a 
circumstance that happened at this time, 
which, though trifling in itself, is fresh in my 
memory, and may serve to illustrate the early 
character of my brother. Murdoch came to 
spend a night with us, and to take his leave 
when he was about, to go into Carrick. He 
brought us, as a present and memorial of him, 
a small compendium of English Grammar, and 
the tragedy of Titus Andronicus, and by way of 
passing the evening, he began to read the play 
aloud. We were all attention for some time, 
till presently the whole party was dissolved 

* Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of this farm is Mount Oliphant, in A3 r parish. 



in tears. A female in the play (I have but a 
confused remembrance of it) had her hands 
chopt off, and her tongue cutout, and then was 
insultingly desired to call for water to wash 
her hands. At this, in an agony of distress, 
we with one voice desired he would read no 
more. My father observed, that if we would 
not hear it out, it would be needless to leave 
the play with us. Robert replied, that if it 
was left he would bum it. My father was 
going to chide him for this ungrateful return 
to his tutor's kindness; but Murdoch inter- 
fered, declaring that he liked £« see so much 
sensibility ; and he left The School for Love, a 
comedy (translated I think from the French,) 
in its place."* 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, "could 
be more retired than ouri general manner of 
living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any 
body but the members of our own family. 
There were no boys of our own age, or near 
it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
part of the land in the vicinity was at that 
time possessed by shopkeepers, and people of 
that stamp, who had retired from business, or 
who kept their farm in the country, at the same 
time that they followed business in town. My 
father was for some time almost the only com- 
panion we had. He conversed familiarly on 
all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; 
and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the con- 
versation to such subjects as might tend to in- 
crease our knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous 
habits. He borrowed Salmon's Geographical 
Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us 
acquainted with the situation and history of 
the different countries in the world ; while 
from a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us 



W * It is' to be remembered that the poet was only nine 
years of age and the relator of this incident under eight, at 
the time it happened. The effect was very natural in child- 
ren of sensibility at their age. At a more mature period 
of the judgment, such absurd representations are calculated 
rather to produce disgust or laughter, than tears. The 
scene to which Gilbert Burns alludes, opens thus : 

Titus Andronicus, Act II. Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia7wi.v/<f<2 
her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

Why is this silly play still printed as Shakspeare's, 
against, the opinion of all the best critics ? The bard of 
Avon was guilty of many extravagances, but he always 
performed what he intended to perform. That he ever ex- 
cited in a British mind (for the French critics must he set 
aside) disgust or ridicule, where he meant to have awak. 
ened pity or horror, is what will not be imputed to that 
master of the passions. 



18 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



the reading of Derham's Physico and Astro- 
Theohgy, and Ray's Wisdom of God in the 
Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy 
and natural history. Robert read all these 
books with an avidity and industry, scarcely 
to be equalled. My father had been a sub- 
scriber to Stackhouse's History of the Bible 
then lately published by James Meuross in 
Kilmarnock: from this Robert collected a 
competent knowledge of ancient history ; for 
no book was so voluminous as to slacken his 
industry, or so antiquated as to damp his re- 
searches. A brother of my mother, who had 
lived with us some time, and had learnt some 
arithmetic by our winter evening's candle, 
went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to pur- 
chase The Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's sure 
Guide, and a book to teach him to write let- 
ters. Luckily, in place of The Complete Let- 
ter-Writer, he got by mistake a small collec- 
tion of letters by the most eminent writers, 
with a few sensible directions for attaining 
an easy epistolary style. This book was to 
Robert of the greatest consequence. It in- 
spired him with a strong desire to excel in let- 
ter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- 
dels by some of the first writers in our lan- 
guage. 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that we wrote so 
ill, sent us, week about, during a summer 
quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, 
which, though between two and three miles 
distant, was the nearest to us, that we might 
have an opportunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my 
father's procured us a reading of two volumes 
of Richardson's Pamela, which was the first 
novel we read, and the only part of Richard- 
son's works my brother was acquainted with 
till towards the period of his commencing 
author. Till that time too he remained unac- 
quainted with Fielding, with Smollet, (two 
volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two 
volumes of Peregrine Pickle excepted,) with 
Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our 
authors of eminence of the later times. I 
recollect indeed my father borrowed a vo- 
lume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of 
Bourtreehill's gardener. It treated of the 
reign of James the First, and his unfortunate 
son, Charles, but 1 do not know who was the 
author ; all that I remember of it is something 
of Charles's conversation with his children. 
About this time Murdoch, our former teach- 
er, after having been in different places in 
the country, and having taught a school 
Borne time in Dumfries, came to be the es- 
tablished teacher of the English language 



in Ayr, a circumstance of considerable con- 
sequence to us. The remembrance of my 
father's former friendship, and his attachment 
to my brother, made him do every thing in his 
power for our improvement. He sent us 
Pope's works, and some other poetry, the first 
that we had an opportunity of reading, except- 
ing what is contained in The English Collec- 
tion, and in the volume of The Edinburgh 
Magazine for 1772 ; excepting also those ex- 
cellent new songs that are hawked about the 
country in baskets, or exposed on stalls in the 
streets. 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrym- 
ple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to 
revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at 
the harvest When the harvest was over, he 
went back to school, where he remained two 
weeks ; and this completes the account of 
his school education, excepting one summer 
quarter, some time afterwards, that he at- 
tended the parish school of Kirk- Oswald, 
(where he lived with a brother of my mo- 
ther's,) to learn surveying. 

" During the two last weeks that he was 
with Murdoch, he himself was engaged in 
learning French, and he communicated the 
instructions he received to my brother, who, 
when he returned, brought home with him a 
French dictionary and grammar, and the Ad- 
ventures of Telemachus in the original. In a 
little while, by the assistance of these books, 
he had acquired such a knowledge of the 
language, as to read and understand any 
French author in prose. This was considered 
as a sort of prodigy, and through the medium 
of Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance 
of several lads in Ayr, who were at that time 
gabbling French, and the notice of some 
families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, 
where a knowledge of French was a recom- 
mendation. 

" Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and 
Mr. Murdoch's particular friend, having him- 
self acquired a considerable knowledge of the 
Latin language by his own industry, without 
ever having learnt it at school, advised Robert 
to make the same attempt, promising him 
every assistance in his power. Agreeably to 
this advice, he purchased The Rudiments of 
the Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry 
and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. 
He frequently returned to his Rudiments on 



THE LIFE 

ly little chagrin or disappointment, particu- 
larly in his love affairs ; but the Latin seldom 
predominated more than a day or two at a 
time, or a week at most. Observing himself 
the ridicule that would attach to this sort of 
conduct if it were known, he made two or 
three humourous stanzas on the subject, which 
I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 



II 



" So I'll to my Latin again. 



" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a prin- 
cipal means of my brother's improvement. 
Worthy man ; though foreign to my present 
purpose, I cannot take leave of him without 
tracing his future history. He continued for 
some years a respected and useful teacher at 
Ayr, till one evening that he had been over- 
taken in liquor, he happened to speak some- 
what disrespectfully of Dr. Dalrymple, the 
parish minister, who had not paid him that 
attention to which he thought himself entitled. 
In Ayr he might as well have spoken blas- 
phemy. He found it proper to give up his 
appointment. He went to London, where he 
still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and 
keeps a shop of stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician 
at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeen- 
shire,- and was one of the established teachers 
in Ayr, when my father settled in the neigh- 
bourhood. He early recognized my father as 
a fellow native of the north of Scotland, and 
a certain degree of intimacy subsisted be- 
tween them during Mr. Paterson's life. After 
his death, his widow, who is a very genteel 
woman, and of great worth, delighted in 
doing what she thought her husband would 
have wished to have done, and assiduously 
kept up her attentions to all his acquaintance. 
She kept alive the intimacy with our family, 
by frequently inviting my father and mother to 
her house on Sundays, when she met them at 
church. 

"When she came to know my brother's 
passion for books, she kindly offered us the 
use of her husband's library, and from her we 
got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, 
and several other books that were of use to us. 
Mount Oliphant, the farm my father possess- 
ed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very 
poorest soil I know of in a state of cultiva- 
tion, A stronger proof of this I cannot give, 
than that, notwithstanding the extraordinary 
rise in the value of lands in Scotland, it was 
after a considerable sum laid out in improving 
it by the proprietor, let a few years ago five 
pounds per annum lower than the rent paid 



OP BURNS. ip 

for it by my father thirty years ago. My 
father, in consequence of this, soon came into 
difficulties, which were increased by the loss 
of several of his cattle by accidents and dis- 
ease. — To the buffetings of misfortune, we 
could only oppose hard labour, and the most 
rigid economy. We lived very sparing. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger 
in the house, while all the members of the 
family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in the 
labours of the farm. My brother, at the age 
of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of 
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer 
on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male 
or female. The anguish of mind we felt at 
our tender years, under these straits and diffi- 
culties, was very great. To think of our 
father growing old (for he was now above 
fifty,) broken down with the long continued 
fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other 
children, and in a declining- state of circum- 
stances, these reflections produced in my 
brother's mind and mine sensations of the 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard 
labour and sorrow of this period of his life, 
was in a great measure the cause of ihat de- 
pression of spirits with which Robert was so 
often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. 
At this time he was almost constantly afflicted 
in the evenings with a dull head-ache, which 
at a future period of his life, was exchanged for 
a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of 
fainting and suffocation in his bed in the night- 
time. 



" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he 
had a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, 
at the end of every sixth year. He attempted 
to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six years more. 
He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, 

in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then 

a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797,) a mer- 
chant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm 
at Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only 
seven years. No writing had ever been made 
out of the conditions of the lease ; a misunder- 
standing took place respecting them; the 
subjects in dispute were submitted to arbitra- 
tion, and the decision involved my father's 
affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this de- 
cision, but not to see any execution in con- 
sequence of it. He died on the 13th of Feb- 
ruary, 1784. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the seventeenth to tte 



20 



THE LIFE 



twenty-fourth of my brother's age,) were not 
marked by much literary improvement ; but, 
during this time, the foundation was laid of 
certain habits in my brother's'* character, 
-which afterwards became but too prominent, 
and which malice and envy have taken delight 
to enlarge on. Though when young he was 
bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet when he approached manhood, 
his attachment to their society became very 
strong, and he was constantly the victim of 
some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his 
passion were often such as nearly to equal 
those of the celebrated Sappho. I never in- 
deed knew that he fainted, sunk, and died 
away ; but the agitations of his mind and body 
exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in 
real life. He had always a particular jealousy 
of people who were richer than himself, or who 
had more consequence in life. His love, there- 
fore, rarely settled on persons of this descrip- 
tion. When he selected any one out of the 
sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he 
should pay his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
similitude between his fair captivator, as she 
appeared to others, and as she seemed when 
invested with the attributes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections 
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 
Madame de L — at the remise door, while the 
eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other 
attractions, which formed so many under- 
plots in the drama of his love. As these con- 
nexions f were governed by the strictest rules 
of virtue and modesty (from which he never 
deviated till he reached his 23d year,) he be- 
came anxious to be in a situation to marry. 
This was not likely to be soon the case while 
he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a 
farm required a sum of money he had no pro- 
bability of being master of for a great while. 
He began, therefore, to think of trying some 
other line of life. He and I had for several 
years taken land of my father for the purpose 
of raising flax on our own account. In the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of 
turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
servient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health 
nor inclination. In Irvine he had contracted 
■ome acquaintance of a freer manner of think- 
ing and living than he had been used to, 
whose society prepared him for overleaping 



OF BURNS. 

the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end of the period 
under review (in his 24th year,) and soon after 
his father's death, he was furnished with the 
subject of his epistle to John Rankin. During 
this period also he became a freemason, which 
was his first introduction to the life of a boon 
companion. Yet, notwithstanding these cir- 
cumstances, and the praise he has bestowed 
on Scotch; drink (which seems to have misled 
his historians,) I do not recollect, during 
these seven years, nor till towards the end of 
his commencing author (when his growing 
celebrity occasioned his being often in com- 
pany,) to have ever seen him intoxicated ; nor 
was he at all given to drinking. A stronger 
proof of the general sobriety of his conduct 
need not be required than what I am about to 
give. During the whole of the time we lived 
in the farm of Lochlea with my father, he 
allowed my brother and me such wages for 
our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a 
part of which, every article of our clothing 
manufactured in the family was regularly ac- 
counted for. When my father's affairs drew 
near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of 
Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent 
of £90 per annum (the farm on which I live at 
present,) from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an 
asylum for the family in case of the worst. Jt 
was stocked by the property and individual 
savings of the whole family, and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the 
family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he performed on the farm. My bro- 
ther's allowance and mine wa* seven pounds 
per annum each. And during the whole time 
this family-concern lasted, which was for four 
years, as well as during the preceding period 
at Lochlea, his expences never in any one 
year exceeded his slender income. As I was 
entrusted with the keeping of the family ac- 
counts, it is not possible that there can be any 
fallacy in this statement in my brother's fa- 
vour. His temperance and frugality were 
every thing that could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very 
frosty, and the spring was very late. Our 
crops in consequence were very unprofitable ; 
and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence 
and economy, we found ourselves obliged to 
give up our bargain, with the loss of a con- 
siderable part of our original stock. It was 
during these four years that Robert formed his 
connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards 
Mrs. Burns. This connexion could no longer 
be concealedy about the time we came to a final 



THE LIFE OP BURNS; 



21 



determination to quit the farm. Robert durst 
not engage with his family in his poor un- 
settled state, but was anxious to shield his 
partner, by every means in his power, from 
the consequences of their imprudence. It was 
agreed therefore between them, that they 
should make a legal acknowledgement of an 
irregular and private marriage ; that he should 
go to Jamaica to push his fortune! and that 
she should remain with her father tilt it might 
please Providence to put the means of sup- 
porting a family in his power. 



" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a marriage was 
the first suggestion he received of -her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, 
and fainted away. The marriage did not ap- 
pear to him to make the matter better. A 
husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his 
wife little better than none, and an effectual 
bar to any other prospects of a settlement in 
life that their daughter might have. They 
therefore expressed a wish to her, that the 
written papers which respected the marriage 
should be cancelled, and thus the marriage 
rendered void. In her melancholy state she 
felt the deepest remorse at having brought 
such heavy affliction on parents that loved her 
so tenderly, and submitted to their entreaties. 
Their wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt 
the deepest anguish of mind. He offered to 
stay at home and provide for his wife and 
family in the best manner that his daily la- 
bours could provide for them ; that being the 
only means in his power. Even this offer they 
did not approve of; for humble as Miss Ar- 
mour's station was, and great though her 
imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes of 
her partial parents, might look to a better 
connexion than that with my friendless and 
unhappy brother, at that time without house 
or biding place. Robert at length consented 
to their wishes ; but his feelings on this oc- 
casion were of the most distracting nature : 
and the impression of sorrow was not effaced, 
till by a regular marriage they were indis- 
solubly united. In the state of mind which 
this separation produced, he wished to leave 
the country as soon as possible, and agreed 
with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an 
assistant overseer; or, as I believe it is called, 
a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not 
sufficient money to pay his passage, and the 
vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure a 
passage for him was not expected to sail for 
some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him to pub- 
lish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little 



money, to provide him more liberally in ne- 
cessaries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this 
advice, subscription-bills were printed im- 
mediately, and the printing was commenced 
at Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at 
the same time for his voyage. The reception, 
however, which his poems met with in the 
world, and the friends they procured him, 
made him change his resolution of going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his 
return, in happier circumstances he renewed 
his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and rendered 
it permanent by a union for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to 
give you a simple narrative of the leading 
circumstances in my brother's early life. The 
remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, or in 
Dumfriesshire, and its incidents are as well 
known to you as to me. His genius having 
procured him your patronage and friendship, 
this gave rise to the correspondence between 
you, in which, I believe, his sentiments were 
delivered with the -most respectful, but most 
unreserved confidence, and which only ter- 
minated with the last days of his life/ 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch of 
our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that 
the distraction of mind which he mentions (p. 
15.) arose from the distress and sorrow in 
which he had involved his future wife. — The 
whole circumstances attending this connexion 
are certainly of a very singular nature.* 

" The reader will perceive, from the fore- 
going narrative, how much the children of 
William Burnes were indebted to their father, 
who was certainly a man of uncommon 
talents ; though it does not appear that he 
possessed any portion of that vivid imagina- 
tion for which the subject of these memoirs 
was distinguished. In page 13, it is observed 
by our poet, that his father had an unaccount- 
able antipathy to dancing-schools, and that 
his attending one of these brought on him his 
displeasure, and even dislike. On this ob- 
servation Gilbert has made the following re- 
mark, which seems entitled to implicit credit : 
— " I wonder how Robert could attribute to 

* In page 15, the poet mentions his—" skulking from 
covert to covert, under the terror of a jail." The " pack 
of the law" were M uncoupled at his heels," to oblige him 
to find security for the maintenance of his twin-children, 
whom he was not permitted to legitimate by a marriage 
with their mother. 



22 



THE LIFE OF BURNS- 



our father that lasting resentment of his going 
to a dancing-school against his will, of which 
he was incapable. I believe the truth was, 
that he, about this time began to see the dan- 
gerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, 
as well as his not being amenable to counsel, 
which often irritated my father; and which 
b.6 would naturally think a dancing-school 
was not likely to correct. But he was proud 
of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more 
expense in cultivating than on the rest of the 
family, in the instances of sending him to 
Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools ; and he was 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, 
and his conversational powers. He had in- 
deed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it dur- 
ing Robert's first month of attendance, that he 
allowed all the rest of the family that were fit 
for it to accompany him during the second 
month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was 
for sometime distractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, our poet 
described his ancestors as u renting lands of 
.the noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having 
had the honour of sharing their fate." " I do 
not," continues he, " use the word honour 
with any reference to political principles ; 
loyal and disloyal, I take to be merely relative 
terms, in that ancient and formidable court, 
known in this country by the name of Club- 
law, where the right is always with the 
strongest. But thosb who dare welcome ruin, 
and shake hands with infamy, for what they 
sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, 
or their king, are, as Mark Antony says in 
Shakspeare of Brutus and Cassius, honourable 
men. I mention this circumstance, because it 
threw my father on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omited in printing 
fhe letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns ; and 
it would have been unnecessary to have no- 
ticed it on the present occasion, had not several 
manuscript copies of that letter been in cir- 
culation. " I do not know," observes Gilbert 
Burns, " how my brother could be misled in 
the account he has given of the Jacobitism of 
his ancestors. — 1 believe the earl Marischal 
forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before 
my father was born ; and among a collection 
of parish certificates in his possession, I have 
read one, stating that the bearer had no con- 
cern in the late wicked rebellion." On the in- 
formation of one, who knew William Burnes ' 
soon after he arrived in the county of Ayr, 
it may be mentioned, that a report did pre- 
vail, that he had taken the field with the 
young Chevalier ; a report which the certifi- 



cate mentioned by his son was, perhaps, in- 
tended to counteract. Strangers from the 
north, settling in the low country of Scotland, 
were in those days liable to suspicions of hav- 
ing been, in the familiar phrase of the country, 
" Out in the forty-five," (1745,) especially 
when they had any stateliness or reserve about 
them, as was the case with William Burnes. 
It may easily be conceived, that our poet 
would cherish the belief of his father's having 
been engaged in the daring enterprise of 
Prince Charles Edward. The generous 
attachment, the heroic valour, and the final 
misfortunes of the adherents of the house of 
Stewart, touched with sympathy his youthful 
and ardent mind, and influenced his original 
political opinions.* 

The father of our poet is described by one 
who knew him towards the latter end of his 
life, as above the common stature, thin, and 
bent with labour. His countenance was seri- 
ous and expressive, and the scanty locks on 
his head were grey. He was of a religious 
turn of mind, and, as is usual among the Scot- 
ish peasantry, a good deal conversant in spec- 
ulative theology. There is in Gilbert's hands 
a little manual of religious belief, in the form 
of a dialogue between a father and his son 
composed by him for the use of his children, 
in which the benevolence of his heart seems to 
have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of 
the Scotish Church, into something approach- 

* There is another observation of Gilbert Burns on his 
brother's narrative, in which some persons will be inter, 
ested. It refers to where the poet spe ks of his youthful 
friends. " My brother," says Gilbert Burns, " seems to 
set offhis early companions in too consequential a manner. 
The principal acquaintances we had in Ayr, while boys, 
were four sons of Mr. Andrew M«Culloch, a distant re- 
lation of my mother's, who kept a tea-shop, and had made 
a little money in-the contraband trade very common at 
that time. He died while the boys were young, and my 
father was nominated one of the tutors. The two eldest 
were bred shop-keepers, the third a surgeon, and the young- 
est, the only surviving one, was bred in a counting-house 
in Glasgow, where he is now a respectable merchant. I 
believe all these boy3 went to the West Indies. Then 
there were two sons of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have men 
tioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest, a very 
worthy young man, went to the East Indies, where he 
had a commission in the army ; he is the person whose 
heart my brother says the ftfuny Begum scenes could 
not corrupt. The other, by the interest of Lady Wallace, 
got an ensigncy in a regiment raised by the Duke of Ham- 
ilton, during the American war. 1 believe neither of them 
are now (1797) alive. We also knew the present Dr. Pet- 
erson of Ayr, and a younger brother of his now in Jamaica* 
who were much younger than us. I had almost forgot to 
mention Dr. Charles, of A yr, who was a little older than 
my brother, and with whom we h, d a longer and closer 
intimacy than with any of the others, which did not, how 
ever, continue in after life.*' 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



23 



ing to Arminianism. He was a devout man, 
and in the practice of calling his family to- 
gether to join in prayer. It is known that the 
exquisite picture, drawn in stanzas xii, xiii, 
xiv, xv, xvi, and xviii of the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, represents William Burnes and his 
family at their evening devotions. 

Of a family so interesting as that which 
inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be willing to listen to 
some farther account. What follows is given 
by one already mentioned with so much honour 
in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Mur- 
doch, the preceptor of our poet, who, in a letter 
to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq. of Dublin, 
author of the Historical Memoirs of the Irish 
Bards, and the Historical Memoirs of the Italian 
Tragedy, thus expresses himself : 

" Sir, — I was lately favoured with a letter 
from our worthy friend, the Rev. Wrn. Adair, 
in which he requested me to communicate to 
you whatever particulars 1 could recollect 
concerning Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. 
My business being at present multifarious and 
harassing, my attention is consequently so much 
divided, and I am so little in the habit of expres- 
sing my thoughts on paper, that at this distance 
of time I can give but a very imperfect sketch 
of the early part of the life of that extraordin- 
ary genius, with which alone I am acquainted. 

" William Burnes, the father of the poet, 
was born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred 
a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire 
ten or twelve years before I knew him, and 
had been in the service of Mr. Crawford of 
Doonside. He was afterwards employed as a 
gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson 
of Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which 
is now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the 
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a piece 
of land, consisting of about seven acres; part 
of which he laid out in garden ground, and 
part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c, still 
continuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected an humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was, with the exception of a 
little straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In 
this mean cottage, of which I myself was at 
times an inhabitant, I really believe there 
dwelt a larger portion of content than in any 
palace in Europe. The Cotter's Saturday 
NiglU will give some idea of the temper and 
mannerB that prevailed there. 



" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the 
school where I was improving in writing, 
under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring 
that I would come and speak to him at a cer- 
tain inn, and bring my writing-bot k with me. 
This was immediately complied with. Having 
examined my writing, lie was pleased with 
it — (you will readily allow he was not difficult,) 
and told me that he had received very satis- 
factory information of Mr. Tennant, the master 
of the English school, concerning my improve- 
ment in English, and in his method of teaching. 
In the month of May following, I was engaged 
by Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to 
teach, and accordingly began to teach the 
little school at Alloway, which was situated a 
few yards from the argillaceous fabric above- 
mentioned. My five employers undertook to 
board me by turns, and to make up a certain 
salary, at the end of the year, provided my 
quarterly payments from the different pupils 
did not amount to that sum. 



" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of age ; his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert, and his younger brother, 
Gilbert, had been grounded a little in English 
before they were put under my care. They 
both made a rapid progress in reading, and a 
tolerable progress in writing. In reading, 
dividing words into syllables by rule, spelling 
without book, parsing sentences, &c. Robert 
and Gilbert were generally at the upper end 
of the class, even when ranged with boys by 
far their seniors. The books most commonly 
used in the school were the Spelling Book, the 
New Testament, the Bible, Mason's Collection of. 
prose and verse, and Fisher's English Grammar. 
They committed to memory the hymns, and 
other poems of that collection, with uncommon 
facility. This facility was partly owing to the 
method pursued by their father and me in in- 
structing them, which was, to make them 
thoroughly acquainted with the meaning 
every word in each sentence that was to be 
committed to memory. By the bye, this may 
be easier done, and at an earlier period than 
is generally thought. As soon as they were 
capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into 
its natural prose order ; sometimes to substi- 
tute synonymous expressions for poetical 
words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, 
you know, are the means of knowing that the 
pupil understands his author. These are ex- 
cellent helps to the arrangement of words in 
sentences, as well as to a variety of expression. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess 
a more lively imagination, and to be more of 



24 THE LIFE 

the wit than Robert. I attempted to teach them 
a little church-music : here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's 
ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his 
voice untunable. It was long before I could 
, get them to distinguish one tune from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, 
and expressive of a. serious, contemplative, 
and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, 
Mirth, with thee 1 mean to live; and certainly, 
if any person who knew the two boys, had 
been asked which of them was the most likely 
to court the muses, he would surely never have 
guessed that Robert had a propensity of that 
kind. 



" In the year 17G9, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the 
school, the boys could not attend regularly ; 
and some changes taking place among the 
other supporters of the school, I left it, having 
continued to conduct it for nearly two years 
and a half. 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being 
one of five candidates who were examined) to 
teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 1773, 
Robert Burns came to board and lodge with 
me, for the purpose of revising the English 
grammar, &c. that ho might be better qualified 
to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. 
He was now with me day and night, in school, 
at all meals, and in all my walks. At the end 
of one week, I told him, that, as he was now 
pretty much master of the parts of speech, &c. 
I should like to teach him something of French 
pronunciation ; that when he should meet with 
the name of a French town, ship, officer, or 
the like, in the newspapers, he might be able 
to pronounce it something like a French word. 
Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and 
immediately we attacked the French with 
great courage. 

" Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of 
verbs, &c. When walking together, and even 
at meals, I was constantly telling him the 
names of different objects, as they presented 
themselves, in French ; so that he was hourly 
laying in a stock of words and sometimes 
little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure 
in learning, and I in teaching, that it was diffi- 
cult to say which of the two was most zealous 
in tho business; and about the end of the 
second week of our study of the French, we 



OF BURNS. 

began to read a little of the Adventures oj 
TelemachuS) in Fenelon's own words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant 
began to whiten, and Robert was summoned 
to relinquish the pleasing scenes that sur- 
rounded the grotto of Calypso ; and, armed 
with a sickle, to seek glory by signalizing 
himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did ; 
for although but about fifteen, I was told that 
he performed the xvork of a man. 

" Thus was 1 deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which was spent 
entirely in the study of English, and the other 
two chiefly in that of French. 1 did not, how- 
ever, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent 
visitant at his father's house, when I had my 
half-holiday ; and very often went, accom- 
panied with one or two persons more intelli- 
gent than myself, that good William Burnes 
might enjoy a mental feast. Then the labour- 
ing oar was shifted to some other hand. The 
father and the son sat down with us, when 
we enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid 
reasoning, sensible remark, and a moderate 
seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely blend- 
ed as to render it palatable to all parties. 
Robert had a hundred questions to ask me 
about the French, &c ; and the father, who 
had always rational information in view, had 
still some question to propose to my more 
learned friends, upon moral or natural philoso- 
phy, or some such interesting subject. Blrs. 
Burnes too was of the party as much as pos- 
sible ; 



* But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
"Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse.'-— 



and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to 
him with a more marked attention than to any 
body else. When under the necessity of being 
absent while he was speaking, she seemed to 
regret, as a real loss, that she had missed 
what the good man had said. This worthy 
woman, Agnes Brown, had the most 
thorough esteem for her husband of any 
woman 1 ever knew. 1 can by no means 
wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I 
myself have always considered William 
Burnes as by far the best of the human race 
that ever I had the pleasure of being ac- 
quainted with — and many a worthy character 
I have known. I can cheerfully join with 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



25 



Robert in the last line of his epitaph (bor- 
rowed from Goldsmith,) 

«* And even hk failings lean'd to virtue's side" 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the ease 
and comfort of his worthy partner, and from 
her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as 
her unwearied attention to the duties of a ' 
mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father ; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in 
the path of virtue ; not in driving them as 
some parents do, to the performance of duties 
to which they themselves are averse. He took 
care to find fault but very seldom ; and there- 
fore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to ■ 
with a kind of reverential awe. A look of ; 
disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was se- 
verely so ; and a stripe with the tawz, even on ! 
the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, pro- ' 
duced a loud lamentation, and brought forth | 
a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers under 
him. I think I never saw him angry but 
twice , the one time it was with the foreman 
of the band, for not reaping the field as he 
was desired ; and the other time, it was with 
an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and 
double entendres. Were every foul mouthed 
old man, to receive a seasonable check in 
this way, it would be to the advantage of the 
tiffing generation. As he was at no time over- j 
bearing to inferiors, he was equally incapable I 
of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that in- ; 
duces some people to keep booing and booing \ 
in the presence of a great man. He always j 
treated superiors with a becoming respect ; j 
but he never gave the smallest encouragement 
to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not ; 
pretend to give you a description of all the j 
manly qualities, the rational and Christian j 
virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. 
Time would fail me. I shall only add, that I 
he carefully practised every known duty, and j 
avoided every thing that was criminal ; or, 
in the apostle's words, Herein did he exercise I 
himself in living a life void of offence towards \ 
God and towards men. O for a world of men ' 



and surpass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey. 

" Although I cannot do justice to the char- 
acter of this worthy man, yet you will per- 
ceive, from these few particulars, what kind 
of person had the principal hand in the 
education of our poet. He spoke the English 
language with more propriety (both with re- 
spect to diction and pronunciation,) than any 
man 1 ever knew with no greater advantages. 
This had a very good effect on the boys, who 
began to talk, and reason like men, much 
sooner than their neighbours. I do not recol- 
lect any of their contemporaries, at my little 
seminary, who afterwards made any great 
figure, as literary characters, except Br. Ten- 
nant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullar ton's 
regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. 
He is a man of genius and learning ; yet 
affable, and free from pedantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that 
he had over-rated Mount Oliphant, and that 
he could not rear his numerous family upoa 
it. After being there some years, he re- 
moved to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbol- 
ton, where, I believe, Robert wrote most of 
his poems. 

" But here, Sir, you will permit me to 
pause. I can tell you but little more relath e 
to our poet. I shall, however, in my next, 
send you a copy of one of his letters to me, 
about the year 1783. I received one since, 
but it is mislaid. Please remember me, in 
the best manner, to my worthy friend 
Mr. Adair, when you see him, or write fo 
him. 

" Hart-street, Bloomsbury- Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was 
written at a time when he was ignorant of the 
existence of the preceeding narrative of his 
brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch was 
written without his having any knowledge 
that either of his pupils had been employed on 
the same subject. The three relations serve 
therefore, not merely to illustrate, but to 
authenticate each other. Though the informa- 
tion they convey might have been presented 
within a shorter compass, by reducing the 



of such dispositions ! We should then have \ whole into one unbroken narrative, it is 



no wars. I have often wished, for the good 
Df mankind, that it were as customary to hon- 
our and perpetuate the memory of those who 
excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what 
are called heroic actions: then would the 
mausoleum of the friend of my youth overtop 



scarcely to be doubted, that the intelligent 
reader will be far more gratified by a sight of 
these original documents themselves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it 
apoears indeed that our poet had great ad- 
E 



*6 



THE LIFE OF BU1NS. 



vantages ; but his opportunities of information 
at school were more limited as to time than 
they usually are among his countrymen in his 
condition of life ; and the acquisitions which 
he made, and the poetical talent which he 
exerted, under the pressure of early and in- 
cessant toil, and of inferior, and perhaps 
scanty nutriment, testify at once the ex- 
traordinary force and activity of his mind. In 
his frame of body he rose nearly to five feet 
ten inches, and assumed the proportions that 
indicate agility as well as strength. In the 
various labours of the farm he excelled all his 
competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that in 
mowing, the exercise that tries all the mus- 
cles most severely, Robert was the only man 
that, at the end of a summer's day he was 
ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. 
But though our poet gave the powers of his 
body to the labours of the farm, he refused to 
bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. 
While the ploughshare under his guidance 
passed through the sward, or the grass feli 
under the sweep of his scythe, he was hum- 
ming the songs of his country, musing on the 
deeds of ancient valour, or wrapt in the 
allusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose 
on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a 
sabbath, on which man and beast rest from 
their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a free intercourse with the 
charms of nature. It was his delight to wan- 
der alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the 
song of the blackbird at the close of the sum- 
mer's day. But still greater was his pleasure, 
as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter 
day, and hearing the storm rave among the 
trees; and more elevated still his delight, to 
ascend some eminence during the agitations of 
na'.ure ; to stride along its summit, while the 
lightning flashed around him ; and amidst the 
howlings of the tempest, to apostrophize the 
spirit of the storm. Such situations he de- 
clares most favourable to devotion. — " Rapt in 
enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him ivho 
walks on the wings of the winds I" If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, 
this might determine it. The heart of the poet 
is peculiarly awake to every impression of 
beauty and sublimity ; but, with the higher 
order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive 
than the sublime. 

The gayely of many of Burns's writings, and 
the lively, and even cheerful colouring with 
which he has portrayed his own character, 
r.r.iy lead some persons to suppose, that the 
melancholy which hung over him towards the 



end of his days was not an original part of his 
constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, 
that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in 
the progress of his life; but, independent of 
his own and of his brother's testimony, 
evidence is to be found among his papers, 
that he was subject very early to those de- 
pressions of mind, which are perhaps not 
wholly separable from the sensibility of 
genius, but which in him arose to an uncom- 
mon degree. The following letter, addressed 
to his father, will serve as a proof of this ob- 
servation. It was written at the time when 
he was learning the business of a flax-dresser, 
and is dated, 

Irvine, December 27, 1781. 
" Honoured Sir — I have purposely de- 
layed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's- 
day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that 1 
do not choose to be absent on that account, as 
well as for some other little reasons, which I 
shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly 
the same as when you were here, only my 
sleep is a little sounder ; and, on the whole, I 
am rather better than otherwise, though I 
mend by very slow degrees. The weakness 
of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that 
1 dare neither review past wants, nor look 
forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or 
perturbation in my breast, produces most un- 
happy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, 
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits 
are a little lightened, I glimmer into futurity ; 
but my principal, and indeed my only pleas- 
urable employment, is looking backwards 
and forwards in a moral and religious way. 
I am quite transported at the thought, that ere 
long, very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu 
to all the pains and uneasiness, and dis- 
quietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you 
1 am heartily tired of it; and, if I do not very 
much deceive myself, I could contentedly and 
gladly resign it, 

« The soul, uneasy, and con fin 'd at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th 
chapter of Revelations, than with any ten ' 
times as many verses in the whole Bible, and 
would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with 
which they inspire me, for all that this world 
has. to offer.* As for this world, I despair of 

* The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as fol- 
lows : 
15. Therefore are they before the throne of God, 



THE LIFE OP BURNS, 



27 



ever making a figure in it. I am not formed 
for the bustle of the busy, nor the Gutter of 
the gay. I shall never again be capable of 
entering into such scenes. Indeed I am alto- 
gether unconcerned at the thoughts of this 
life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity 
probably await me, I am in some measure 
prepared, and daily preparing to meet them. I 
have but just time and paper to return you 
my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue 
and piety you have given me, which were too 
much neglected at the time of giving them, 
but which, I hope, have been remembered 
ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful re- 
spects to my mother, and my compliments to 
Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing you a 
merry New-year's-day, I shall conclude. I 
am, honoured Sir, Your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

" P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but 1 am 
going to borrow, till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was 
as obscure as his condition was humble, dis- 
plays the philosophic melancholy which so 
generally forms the poetical temperament, and 
that buoyant and ambitious spirit which in- 
dicates a mind conscious of its strength. At 
Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a single 
room for his lodging, rented perhaps at the 
rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days 
in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his 
food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to him 
from his father's family. The store of this 
humble, though wholesome nutriment, it ap- 
pears was nearly exhausted, and he was about 
to borrow till he should obtain a supply. Yet 
even in this situation, his active imagination 
had formed to itself pictures of eminence and 
distinction. His despair of making a figure 
in the world, shows how ardently he wished 
for honourable fame ; and his contempt of 
life founded on this despair, is the genuine 
expression of a youthful and generous mind. 
In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, 
the imagination of Burns, naturally passed 
the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, 
and rested on those beautiful representations 
cf a better world, where there is neither 
thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow ; and where 

and serve him day and night in his temple ; and Jte 
that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

16. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any 
more ; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any 
heat. 

17. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the 
throne, sliallfecd them, and shall lead them unto 
living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe 
an ay all tears from their eves. 



happiness shall be in proportion to the capa- 
city of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at 
variance with social enjoyments. Those who 
have studied the affinities of mind, know that 
a melancholy of this description, after awhile, 
seeks relief in the endearments of society, 
' and that it has no distant connexion with the 
! flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance 
of mirth. It was a few days after the writing 
of this letter that our poet, u in giving a 
welcome carousal to the new year, with his 
gay companions," suffered his flax to catch 
fire, and his shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' mind was not ex- 
hausted by his daily labours, the effusions of 
his muse, his social pleasures or his soli- 
tary meditations. Some time previous to 
his engagement as a flax-dresser, having 
heard that a debating-club had been estab- 
lished in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a 
meeting would succeed in the village of Tar- 
bolton. About the end of the year 1780, our 
poet, his brother, and five other young peas- 
ants of the neighbourhood, formed themselves 
into a society of this sort, the declared ob- 
jects of which were to relax themselves after 
toil, to promote sociality and friendship, and 
to improve the mind. The laws and regula- 
tions were furnished by Burns. The members 
were to meet after the labours of the day were 
over, once a week, in a small public-house in 
the village ; where each should offer his opin- 
ion on a given question or subject, supporting 
it by such arguments as he thought proper. 
The debate was to be conducted with order 
and decorum ; and after it was finished, the 
members were to choose a subject for discus- 
sion at the ensuing meeting. The sum ex- 
pended by each was not to exceed threepence ; 
and, with the humble potation that this could 
procure, they were to toast their mistresses, 
and to cultivate friendship with each other. 
This society continued its meetings regular- 
ly for some time ; and in the autumn of 1782, 
wishing to preserve some account of their 
proceedings, they purchased a book into 
which their laws and regulations were co- 
pied, with a preamble, containing a short his- 
tory of their transactions down to that period. 
This curious document, which is evidently the 
w'ork of our poet, has been discovered, and it 
deserves a place in his memoirs. 
" History of the Bise, Proceedings, and Iugulations 
of the Bachelor's Club. 

«' Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afford ; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 



23 



THE LIFE OF BUHNS. 



M As the great end of hu-man society is to 
become wiser and better, this ought therefore 
to be the principal view of every man in 
every station of life. But as experience 
has taught us, that such studies as inform 
the head and mend the heart, when long 
continued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of 
the mind, it has been found proper to relieve 
and unbend the mind by some employment 
or another, that may be agreeable enough to 
keep its powers in exercise, but at the same 
time not so serious as to exhaust them. 
But, superadded to this, by far the greater 
part of mankind are under the necessity of 
earning the sustenance of human life by the la- 
bour of their bodies, whereby, not only the fa- 
culties of the mind, but the nerves and sinews 
of the body, are so fatigued, that it is abso- 
lutely necessary to have recourse to some 
amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied 
man, worn down with the necessary labours 
of life. 

" As the best of things, however, have 
been perverted to the worst of purposes, so, 
under the pretence of amusement and diver- 
sion, men have plunged into all the madness 
of riot and dissipation ; and, instead of atten- 
ding to the grand design of human life, they 
have begun with extravagance and folly, and 
ended with guilt and wretchedness. Impres- 
sed with these considerations, we, the fol- 
lowing lads in the parish of Tarbolton, viz. 
Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burn?, 
Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William M'Gavin, resolved, for 
our mutual entertainment , to unite ourselves 
into a club, or society, under such rules and 
regulations, that while we should forget our 
cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
might not transgress the bounds of innocence 
and decorum ; and after agreeing on these, 
and some other regulations, we held our first 
meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John 
Richard, upon the evening of the 11th of No- 
vember, 1780, commonly called Hallowe'en, 
and after choosing Robert Burns president for 
the night, we proceeded to debate on this 
question — Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, 
but without any fortune, has it in his power to 
marry either of two women, the one a girl of 
large fortune, but neither handsotne in person, 
nor agreeable in conversation, tut who can man- 
age the household affairs of a farm well enough ; 
the other of them a girl every way agreeable in 
person, conversation, and behaviour, but without 
any fortune: which of them shall he choose? 
Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
we resolved to continue to meet once a month 
in the same house, in the way and manner 



proposed, and shortly thereafter we chose 
Robert Ritchie for another member. In May 
1781, we brought in David Sillar,* and in 
June, Adam Jamaison, as members. About 
the beginning of the year 1782, we admitted 
Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and in 
June following we chose James Patterson as 
a proper brother for such a society. The club 
being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarbolton on the race-night, the July follow- 
ing, and have a dance in honour of our socie- 
ty. Accordingly we did meet, each one with 
a partner, and spent the evening in such in- 
nocence and merriment, such cheerfulness 
and good humour, that every brother will 
long remember it with pleasure and delight." 
To this preamble are subjoined the rules and 
regulations.! 

The philosophical mind will dwell with in- 
terest and pleasure, on an institution that 
combined so skilfully the means of instruc- 
tion and of happiness, and if grandeur look 
down with a smile on these simple annals, let 
us trust that it will be a smile of benevolence 
and approbation. It is with regret that the 
sequel of the history of the Bachelor's Club of 
Tarbolton must be told. It survived several 
years after our poet removed from Ayrshire,. 
but no longer sustained by his talents, or 
cemented by his social affections, its meetings 
lost much of their attraction ; and at length, 
in an evil hour, dissention arising amongst 
its members, the institution was given up, and 
the records committed to the flames. Happily 
the preamble and the regulations were spared ; 
and, as matter of instruction and of example, 
they are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a similar institution there. The re- 
gulations of the club at Mauchline were near* 
ly the same as those of the club at Tarbolton : 
but one laudable alteration was made. The 
fines for non-attendance had atTarboltonbeen 
spent in enlarging their scanty potations ; at 
Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so 
arising, shouM be set apart for the purchase 
of books, and the first work procured in this 
manner was the Mirror, the separate numbers 
of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it, followed 
a number of other works, chiefly of the same 
nature and among these the Lounger. The 
society of Mauchline still subsists, and ap- 

# The person to whom Burns addressed his Epistle to 
Davie, a brother poet. 
t For which see Appendix, No. II. Note C. 



TH3 LIFE OF BURM5, 



20 



peared in the list of subscribers to the first 
edition of the works of its celebrated as- 
sociate. 

The members of these two societies were 
originally all young men from the country, 
and chiefly sons of farmers ; a description of 
persons, in the opinion of our poet, more 
agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in 
their conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
provement, than the self-suflicient mechanics 
of country-towns. With deference to the 
conversation society of Mauchline, it may be 
doubted, whether the books which they pur- 
chased were of a kind best adapted to pro- 
mote the interest and happiness of persons in 
this situation of life. The Mirror and the 
Lounger, though works of great merit, may be 
said on a general view of their contents, to be 
less calculated to increase the knowledge, 
than to refine the taste of those who read 
them; and to this last object their morality 
itself, which is however always perfectly pure, 
may be considered as subordinate. As works 
of taste, they deserve great praise. They are, 
indeed, refined to a high degree of delicacy ; 
and to this circumstance it is perhaps owing, 
that they exhibit little or nothing of the pecu- 
liar manners of the age or country in which 
they were produced. But delicacy of taste, 
though the source of many pleasures, is not 
without some disadvantages ; and to render it 
desirable, the possessor should perhaps in all 
cases be raised above the necessity of bodily 
labour, unless indeed we should include under 
this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
of taste may be a blessing to him who has the. 
disposal of his own time, and who can choose 
what book he shall read, of what diversion he 
shall partake, and what company he shall 
keep. To men so situated, the cultivation of 
taste affords a grateful occupation in itself, 
and opens a path to many other gratifications. 
To men of genius, in the possession of opu- 
lence and leisure, the cultivation of the taste 
may be said to be essential ; since it affords 
employment to those faculties, which without 
employment would destroy the happiness of 
the possessor, and corrects that morbid sen- 
sibility, or, to use the expressions of Mr. 
Hume, that delicacy of passion, which is the 
bane of the temperament of genius. Happy 
had it been for our bard, after he emerged 
from the condition of a peasant, had the deli- 
cacy of his taste equalled the sensibility of 
his passions, regulating all the effusions of 
his muse, and presiding over all his social 
enjoyments. • But to the thousands who share 
the original condition of Burns, and who are 



doomed to pass their lives in the station iu 
which they were born, delicacy of taste, were 
it even of easy attainment, would, if not a 
positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. 
Delicacy of taste may make many necessary 
labours irksome or disgusting; and should it 
render the cultivator of the soil unhappy iu 
his situation, it presents no means by which 
that situation may be improved. Taste and 
literature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which so/retimes secure 
to their votaries distinction while living, and 
which still more frequently obtain for them 
posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with 
the utmost attention ; and can svarcely be 
pursued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupations 
allow. Those who raise themselves from the 
condition of daily labour, are usually men 
who excel in the practice of some useful art, 
or who join habits of industry and sobriety to 
an aquaintance with some of the more common 
branches of knowledge. The penmanship of 
Butterworth, and the arithmetic, of Cocker, 
may be studied by men in the humblest walks 
of life ; and they will assist the peasant more 
in the pursuit of independence, than the 
study of Homer or of Shakspeare, though he 
could comprehend, and even imitate the 
beauties of those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample discussion. It may be observed, on 
the other hand, that the first step to improve- 
ment is to awaken the desire of improvement 
and that this will be most effectually 
done by such reading as interests the heart 
and excites the imagination. The greater 
part of the sacred writings themselves, which 
in Scotland are more especially the manual 
of the poor, come under this description. It 
may be farther observed, that every human 
being, is the proper judge of his own happi- 
ness, and within the path of innocence, ought 
to be permitted to pursue it. Since it is the 
taste of the Scotish peasantry to give a pre- 
ference to works of taste and of fancy,* it may 
be presumed they find a superior gratification 
in the perusal of such works ; and it may be 
added, that it is of more consequence they 
should be made happy in their original condi- 
tion, than furnished with the means, or with the 

*• In several lists of book-societies among the poorer 
classes in Scotland which the editor has seen, works of this 
description form a great part. These societies are I y 
no means general, and it it not supposed that they ;rc 
inci easing at pi cscnt. 




so 



THE LIFE OF BUHWS. 



desire, of rising above it. Such consider- ' 
ations are doubtless of much weight : never- j 
theless, the previous reflections may deserve to i 
be examined, and here we shall leave the sub- 
ject. 

Though the records of the society at Tar- 
bolton are lost, and those of the society at 
Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet we 
may safely affirm, that our poet was a dis- 
tinguished member of both these associations, 
which were well calculated to excite and to 
develop the powers of his mind. From seven 
to twelve persons constituted the society of 
Tarbolton, and such a number is best suited 
to the purposes of information. Where this is 
the object of these societies, the number should 
be such, that each person may have an oppor- 
tunity of imparting. his sentiments, as well as 
of receiving those of others ; and the powers 
of private conversation are to be employed, 
not those of public debate. A limited society 
of this kind, where the subject of conversation 
is fixed beforehand, so that each member may 
revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps 
one of the happiest contrivances hitherto dis- 
covered for shortening the acquisition of know- 
ledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. 
Such an association requires indeed somewhat 
more of regulation than the rules of politeness 
establish in common conversation ; or rather, 
perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, 
which in animated conversation are liable to 
perpetual violation, should be vigorously en- 
forced. The order of speech established in 
the club at Tarbolton, appears to have been 
more regular than was required in so small a 
society ;* where all that is necessary seems to 
be the fixing on a member to whom every 
speaker shall address himself, and who shall 
iu return secure the speaker from interruption. 
Conversation, which among men whom inti- 
macy and friendship have relieved from re- 
serve and restraint, is liable, when left to 
itself, to so many inequalities, and which, as 
it becomes rapid, so often diverges into sep- 
arate and collateral branches, in which it is 
dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation of this kind, 
which practice renders easy and familiar, 
flows along in one full stream, and becomes 
smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. 
It may also be observed, that in this way the 
acquisition of knowledge becomes more pleas- 
ant and more easy, from the gradual improve- 
ment of the faculty employed to convey it. 
Though some attention has been paid to the 
eloquence of the senate and the bar, which in 

• Sec Appendix, No. II. Note C. 



this, as in all other free governments, is produc- 
tive of so much influence to the few who excel 
in it, yet little regard has been paid to the 
humbler exercise of speech in private conver- 
sation ; an art that is of consequence to every 
description of persons under every form of 
government, and on which eloquence of every 
kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much 
time and of long practice. Children are 
always defective in clear articulation, and so 
are young people, though in a less degree. 
What is called slurring in speech, prevails 
with some persons through life, especially in 
those who are taciturn. Articulation does not 
seem to reach its utmost degree of distinctness 
in men before the age of twenty, or upwards; 
in women it reaches this point somewhat 
earlier. Female occupations require much 
use of speech because they are duties in de- 
tail. Besides, their occupations being gene- 
rally sedentary, the respiration is left at lib- 
erty. Their nerves being more delicate, their 
sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; the 
natural consequence of which is, a more fre- 
quent utterance of thought, a greater fluency 
of speech, and a distinct articulation at an 
earlier age. But in men who have not min- 
gled early and familiarly with the world, 
though rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear 
in apprehension, it is often painful to observe 
the difficulty with which their ideas are com- 
municated by speech, through the want of 
those habits that connect thoughts, words, 
and sounds together ; which, when established, 
seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but 
which, in truth, are the result of long and pain- 
ful practice ; and when analyzed, exhibit the 
phenomena of most curious and complicated 
association. 

Societies then, such as we have been de- 
scribing, while they may be said to put each 
member in possession of the knowledge of all 
the rest, improve the powers of utterance ; 
and by the collision of opinion, excite the 
faculties of reason and reflection. To those 
who wish to improve their minds in such in- 
tervals of labour as the condition of a peasant 
allows, this method of abbreviating instruction, 
may, under proper regulations, be highly use« 
ful. To the student, whose opinions, springing 
out of solitary observation and meditation, are 
seldom in the first instance correct, and which 
have, notwithstanding, while confined to him- 
self, an increasing tendency to assume in his 
own eye the character of demonstrations, an 
association of this kind, where they may be 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



31 



examined as they arise, is of the utmost im- 
portance ; since it may prevent those illusions 
of imagination, by which genius being bewil- 
dered, science is often debased, and error 
propagated through successive generations. 
And to men who have cultivated letters, ov 
general science in the course of their edu- 
cation, but who are engaged in the active 
occupations of life, and no longer able to de- 
vote to study or to books the time requisite 
for improving or preserving their acquisitions, 
associations of this kind, where the mind may 
unbend from its usual cares in discussions cf 
literature or science, afford the most pleasing, 
the most useful, and the most rational of gra- 
tifications.* 

Whether in the humble societies of which 
he was a member, Burns acquired much di- 
rect information, may perhaps be questioned. 
It cannot however be doubted, that by colli- 
sion, the faculties of his mind would be ex- 
cited ; that by practice his habits of enuncia- 
tion would be established; and thus we have 
some explanation of that early command of 
words and of expression which enabled him 
to pour forth his thoughts in language not 
unworthy of his genius, and which, of all his 
endowments, seemed, on his appearance in 
Edinburgh, the most extraordinary.! For 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated in an- 
cient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tablets of 
learning and science, and necessity produced the habit of 
studying as it were in common. Poets were found reciting 
their own verses in public assemblies ; in public schools 
only philosophers delivered their speculations. Tine taste 
of the hearers, the ingenuity of the scholars, were employ- 
ed in appreciating and examining the works of fancy and 
of speculation submitted to their consideration, and the 
irrevocable words were not given to the world before the 
composition, as well as the sentiments, were again and 
again retouched and improved. Death alone put the last 
seal on the labours of genius. Hen ce, perhaps, may be in 
part explained the extraordinary art and skill with which 
the monuments of Grecian literature that remain to us, 
appear to have been constructed. 

t It appears that our Poet made more preparation than 
might be supposed, for the discussions of the society of 
Tarbolton.— There were found some detached memoranda, 
evidently prepared for these meetings ; and, amongst 
others, the heads of a speech on the question, mentioned in 
p. 28, in which, as might be expected, he takes tho mt- 
j.rudent side of the question. The following may serve 
as a farther specimen of the questions.debated in the society 
at Tarbolton : — Whether do we derive more happiness 
from love or friendship ?— Whether bet ween friends, 
who have no reason to doubt each other's friendship, 
there should be any reserve ? — Whether is the savage 
man, or the peasant of a civilised .country, in the 
most happy situation ? — Whether is a young man of 
the lower ranks of life likeliest to be happy, who has 
got a good education, and his mind well informed, or 
he who has fust the education and information of 
those around him ? 



associations of a literary nature, our poet ac- 
quired a considerable relish ; and happy had 
it been for him, after he emerged from the 
condition of a peasant, if fortune had permit- 
ted him to enjoy them in the degree of which 
he was capable, so as to have fortified his 
principles of virtue by the purification of his 
taste ; and given to the energies of his mind 
habits of exertion that might have excluded 
other associations, in which it must be ac- 
knowledged they were too often wasted, as 
well as debased. 



The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the 
banks of that river, as it bends to the eastward 
above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, 
and they were frequented, as may be imagin- 
ed, by our poet in his solitary walks. Here 
the muse often visited him. In one of these 
wanderings, he met among the woods a cele- 
brated beauty of the west of Scotland : — a 
lady, of whom it is said, that the charms of 
her person correspond with the character of 
her mind. This incident gave rise, as might 
be expected, to a poem, of which an account 
will be found in the following letter, in 
which he inclosed it to the object of his inspi- 
ration : 

To Miss 



31ossgiel, 18th November, 1786. 

" Madam, — Poets are such outre beings, so 
much the children of wayward fancy and ca- 
pricious whim, that I believe the world gener- 
ally allows them a larger latitude in the laws 
of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
and prudence. I mention this as an apology 
for the liberties that a nameless stranger has 
taken with you in the enclosed poem, which 
he begs leave to present you with. Whether 
it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is 
the best my abilities can produce ; and, what 
to a good heart will perhaps be a superior 
grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 



" Tha scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, Madam, you do not 
recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I 
had roved out as chance directed, in the fa- 
vourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the 
Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the 
vernal year. The evening sun was flaming 
over the distant western hills: not a breath 
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the 
verdant spreading leaf —It was a golden 



32 



moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the 
leathered warblers, pouring their harmony on 
every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, 
and frequently turned out of my path, lest 1 
should disturb their little songs, or frighten 
them to another station. Surely, said I to 
myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, re- 
gardless of your harmonious endeavours to 
please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you 
of all the property nature gives you, your 
dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. 
Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot 
across the way, what heart at such a time but 
must have been interested in its welfare, and 
wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing 
cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such 
was the scene — and such the hour, when, in a 
corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fair- 
est pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's 
eye : those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny 
and Villany taken my walk they had at that 
moment sworn eternal peace with such an ob- 
ject. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain, dull, historic prose 
into metaphor and measure. 

"The enclosed song* was the work of my 
return home ; and perhaps it but poorly an- 
swers what might have been expected from 
such a scene. 



" I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, and very humble servant, 
" Robert Burns." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this incident, and into which the 
letter and poem are copied, he complains that 
the lady made no reply to his effusions, and 
this appears to have wounded his self-love. 
It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse 
for her silence. Burns was at that time little 
known ; and where known at all, noted rather 
for the wild strength of his humour, than for 
those strains of tenderness in which he after- 
wards so much excelled. To the lady herself 
his name had perhaps never been mentioned, 
and of such a poem she might not consider 
herself as the proper judge. Her modesty 
might prevent her from perceiving that the 
muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless 
poet, and that her beauty was awakening 

* The long untitled the Lass of Ballochmyle. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

strains destined to immortality, on the bank 



of the Ayr. It maybe conceived, also, that 
supposing the verse duly appreciated, delicacy 
might find it difficult to express its acknow- 
ledgements. The fervent imagination of the 
rustic bard possessed more of.tenderness than 
of respect. Instead of raising himself to the 
condition of the object of his admiration, he 
presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain 
this high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It 
is true, Burns might have found precedents 
for such freedoms among the poets of Greece 
and Rome, and indeed of every country. And 
it is not to be denied, that lovely women have 
generally submitted to this sort of profanation 
with patience, and even with good humour. 
To what purpose is it to repine at a misfor- 
tune which is the necessary consequence of 
their own charms, or to remonstrate with a 
description of men who are incapable of con- 
trol? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beauti- 
ful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may 
have been, did not reject with scorn the ador- 
ations of our poet, though she received them 
with silent modesty and dignified reserve. 



The sensibility of our bard' s temper, and 
the force of his imagination, exposed him in a 
particular manner to the impressions of beau- 
ty ; and these qualities, united to his impas- 
sioned eloquence, gave in turn a powerful in- 
fluence over the female heart. The Banks of 
the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions 
of a still tenderer nature, the history of 
which it would be improper to reveal, were it 
even in our power ; and the traces of which 
will soon be discoverable only in those strains 
of nature and sensibility to which they 
gave birth. The song entitled Highland 
Mary, is known to relate to one of these at- 
tachments. " It was written," says our bard, 
" on one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthful days." The object of this pas- 
sion died early in life, and the impression left 
on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep 
and lasting. Several years afterwards, when 
he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to 
the sensibility of his recollections in that 
impassioned poem, which is addressed To 
Mary , in Heaven! 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- 
tions are necessary, in order that the reader 
may see bis character in its various aspects, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 
and may have an opportunity of forming a just 
notion of the variety, as well as of the power 
of his original genius.* 



33 



We have dwelt the longer on the early part 
of his life, because it is the least known ; and 

* The history of the poems formerly printed, will be 
foun d in the Appendix to this volume. It is inserted 
in the words of Gilbert Burns, who, in a letter ad- 
dressed to the Editor, has given the following account of 
the friends which Robert's talents procured him before he 
left Ayrshire, or attracted the notice of the world, 

" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our coming to it, 
(Martinmas, 1783,) was the property of the Earl of Lou- 
don, but was held in tack by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer 
in Mauchline, from whom we had our bargain ; who had 
thus an opportunity of knowing, and showing a sincere 
regard for my brother, before he knew that he was a poet. 
The poet's estimation of him, and the strong outlines of 
his character, may be collected from the dedication to this 
gentleman. When the publication was begun, Mr. H. 
entered very warmly into its interests, and promoted the 
subscription very extensively. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer 
in Ayr, is a man of worth and taste, of warm affections, 
and connected with a most respectable circle of friends 
and relations. It is to this gentleman TJie Cotter's 
Suturday Night is inscribed. The poems of my brother 
which I have formerly mentioned, no sooner came into 
his hands, than they were quickly known, and well receiv- 
ed in the extensive circle of Mr. Aiken's friends, which 
gave them a sort of currency, necessary in this wise world, 
even for the good reception of things valuable in them- 
selves. But Mr. Aiken not only admired the poet ; as 
soon as he became acquainted with him, he showed the 
warmest regard for the man, and did every thing in his 
power to forward his interest and respectability. The 
Epistle to a Young Friend was addressed to this gen- 
tleman's son, Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He 
was the oldest of a young family, who were taught to re- 
ceive my brother with respect, as a man of genius, and 
their father's friend. 

" Tlie Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Ballantine 
Esq, banker in Ayr j one of those gentlemen to whom my 
brother was introduced by Mr. Aiken. He interested 
himself very warmly in my brother's concerns, and con- 
stantly showed the greatest friendship and attachment 
to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was all sold off, 
and a considerable demand pointed out the propriety of 
publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, who had printed 
the first, was asked if he would print the second, and 
take his chance of being paid from the first sale. This he 
declined, and when this came to Mr. Ballantine's know- 
ledge, he generously offered to accommodate Robert with 
what money he might need for that purpose ; but advised 
him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest place for publishing. 
When he did go to Edinburgh, his friends, advised him 
to publish again by subscription, so that he did not need to 
accept this offer. Mr. William Parker, merchant in Kil- 
marnock was a subscriber for thirty five copies of the Kil- 
marnock edition. This may perhaps appear not deserving 
of notice here; but if the comparative obscurity of the poet, 
at this period, be taken into consideration, it appears to me 
a greater effort of generosity, than many things which 
appear more brilliant in my brother's future history. 

■ Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was c:;e 



because, as has already been mentioned, this 
part of his history is connected with some 
views of the condition and manners of the 
humblest ranks of society, hitherto little ob- 
served, and which will perhaps be found 
neither useless nor uninteresting. 

of those friends Robert's poetry had procured him, and 
one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman had no 
very great fortune, or long line of dignified ancestry ; but 
what Robert says, of Captain Matthew Henderson, might 
be said of him with great propriety, that he held the pa- 
tent of his honours immediately from Almighty God. 
Nature had indeed marked him a gentleman in the most 
legible characters. He died while yet a young man, soon 
after the publication of my brothel's first Edinburgh edi- 
tion. Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, paid a very 
flattering attention, and showed a good deal of friendship 
for the poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well as 
after, Robert seemed peculiarly pleased with Professor 
Stewart's friendship and conversation. 

"But of all the friendships which Robert acquired in 
Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable to 
him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop ; nor any which 
has been more uniformly and constantly exerted in behalf 
of him and his family, of which, were it proper, I could 
give many instances. Robert was on the point of setting 
out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dunlop had heard of him. 
About the time of my brother's publishing in Kilmarnock, 
she had been afflicted with a long and severe illness, which 
had reducedher mind to the most distressing state of depres- 
sion. In this situation, a copy of the printed poems was 
laid on her table by a friend ; and happening to open on 
The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it over with the 
greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of 
the simple cottagers, operating on her mind like the 
charm of a powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui 
and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and satis- 
faction. — Mrs. Dunlop sent offa person express to Moss- 
giel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging 
letter to my brother, desiring him to send her half a dozen 
copies of his poems, if he had them to spare, and begging 
he would do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop House 
as soon as convenient. This was the beginning of a corres- 
pondence which ended only with the poet's life. The last 
use he made of his pen was writing a short letter to this 
lady a few days before his death. 

" Colonel Fullarton, who afterwards paid a very particu- 
lar attention to the poet, was not in the country at the 
time of his first commencing author. At this distance of 
time, and in the hurry of a wet day, snatched from labori- 
ous occupations, I may have forgot some persons who 
ought to have been mentioned on this occasion ; for which, 
if it come to my knowledge, I shall be heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particular val^ 
to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole heiress to Sir 
Thomas Wallace of Crargie, and lineal descendent of the 
illustrious Wallace, the first of Scotish warriors, pos- 
sesses the qualities of mind suited to her high lineage. 
Preserving, in the decline of life, the generous affections 
of youth j her admiration of the poet was soon accom- 
panied by a sincere friendship for the man ; which pur- 
sued hirr. in after-life through good and evil report : in 
poverty, in 6ickne6s, and in sorrow ; and which is con- 
tinued to his infant family, now deprived of their pa. 
rent. 

F 



S4 



THE LIFE 



About the time of his leaving his native conn- j 
ty, his correspondence commences ; and in the ■ 
series of letters now given to the world, the 
chief incidents of the remaining part of his life 
will be found. This authentic, though melan- 
choly record, will supersede in future the ne- 
cessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of 
November, 1786. He was furnished with a 
letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock, from 
the gentleman to whom the Doctor had ad- j 
dressed the letter which is represented by our | 
bard as the immediate cause of his visiting 
the Scotish metropolis. He was acquainted 
with Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral Philo- 
sophy in the university ; and had been enter* 
tained by that gentleman at Catrine, his 
estate in Ayrshire. He had been introduced 
by Mr. Alexander Dalzel to the earl of Glen- 
cairn, who had expressed his high approba- 
tion of his poetical talents. He had friends 
therefore who could introduce him into the 
circles of literature as well as of fashion, and 
his own manners and appearance exceeding 
every expectation that could have been formed 
of them, he soon became an object of general 
curiosity and admiration. The following cir- 
cumstance contributed to this in a consider- 
able degree. — At the time when Burns arrived 
in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, entitled 
The Lounger, was publishing, every Saturday 
producing a successive number. His poems 
had attracted the notice of the gentlemen en- 
gaged in that undertaking, and the ninety- 
seventh number of those unequal, though fre- 
quently beautiful essays, is devoted to An 
Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire Plough- 
man, with extracts from his Poems, written by 
the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie.* The 
Lounger had an extensive circulation among 
persons of taste and literature, not in Scotland j 
only, but in various parts of England, to ! 
whose acquaintance therefore our bard was im- 
mediately introduced. The paper of Mr. j 
Mackenzie wa3 calculated to introduce him 
advantageously. The extracts are well 
selected ; the criticisms and reflections are 
judicious as well as generous; and in the! 
style and sentiments there is that happy deli- 1 
cacy, by which the writings of the author are 
so eminently distinguished. The extracts 
from Burn9's poems in the ninety-seventh num- 
ber of the Lounger were copied into the London 
as well as into many of the provincial papers, 



• This paper has been attributed, but improperly, 
to Lord Craig, one of tho Scotish judges, author of 
tho very interesting account of Michael Bruce in 
tfaO 30th number of '/%c Minor, 



OF BURNS. 

and the fame of our bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and con- 
duct of Burns at this period, the following 
account has been given by Mr. Stewart, 
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the univer- 
sity of Edinburgh, in a letter to the editor, 
which he is particularly happy to have 
obtained permission to insert in these me- 
moirs. 

" The first time I saw Robert Burns was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
house in Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon, in 
Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the 
pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to 
mention the date particularly, by some verses 
which Burns wrote after he returned home, 
and in which the day of our meeting is re- 
corded. — My excellent and much lamented 
friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened 
to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by the 
kindness and frankness of his manners, left an 
impression on the mind of the poet, which 
never was effaced. The verses I allude to 
are among the most imperfect of his pieces ; 
but a few stanzas may perhaps be an object of 
curiosity to you, both on account of the char- 
acter to which they relate, and of the light 
which they throw on the situation and feelings 
of the writer, before his name was known to 
the public* 

" I cannot positively say, at this distance 
of time, whether at the period of our first 
acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet in 
the press. I suspect that the latter was the 
case, as I have still in my possession copies in 
his own handwriting, of some of his favourite 
performances ; particularly of his verses " on 
turning up a Mouse with his plough ;" — 
" on the Mountain Daisy ;" and " the La- 
ment" On my return to Edinburgh, I showed 
the volume, and mentioned what I knew of 
the author's history to several of my friends : 
and, among others, to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, 
who first recommended him to public notice 
in the 97th number of The Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a 
very humble situation, not however without 
lamenting that his want of patronage should 
force him to think of a project so repugnant 
to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no 

* See the poem entitled " Lines on an Interview with 
Lord Dacr"— Poems p. 77. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



higher an object than the station of an excise- 
man or gauger in his own country. 

tl His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and inde- 
pendent ; strongly expressive of conscious 
genius and worth ; but without any thing that 
indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. 
He took his share in conversation, but not 
more than belonged to him ; and listened 
with apparent attention and deference on 
subjects where his want of education de- 
prived hum of the means of information. If 
there had been a little more gentleness and 
accommodation in his temper, he would, I 
think, have been still more interesting ; but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the 
circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his 
dread of any thing approaching to meanness 
or servility, rendered his manner somewhat 
decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was 
more remarkable among his various attain- 
ments, than the fluency, and precision, and 
originality of his language, when he spoke in 
company ; more particularly as he aimed at 
purity in his turn of expression, and avoided 
more successfully than most Scotchmen, the 
peculiarities of Scotish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several 
months. By whose advice he took this step, I 
am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested 
only by his own curiosity to see a little more 
of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the 
consequences from the first, and always 
wished that his pursuits and habits should 
continue the same as in the former part of 
life ; with the addition of, what I considered 
as then completely within his reach, a good 
farm on moderate terms, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

'■ " The attentions he received during his 
stay in town, from all ranks and descriptions 
of persons, were such as would have turned 
any head but his own. I cannot say that I 
could perceive any unfavourable effect which 
•they left on his mind. He retained the same 
simplicity of manners and appearance which 
had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him 
in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any 
1 additional self-importance from the number 
4nd rank of his new acquaintance. His dress 
was perfectly suited to his station, plain, and 
unpretending, with a sufficient attention to 
neatness. If I recollect right he always wore 
boots ; and, when on more than usual cere- 
aiony, buck-skin breeches. 



" The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course 
of the spring he called on me once or twice, at 
my request, early in the morning, and walked 
with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood 
of the town, when he charmed me still more 
by his private conversation, than he had ever 
done in company. He was passionately fond 
of the beauties of nature ; and I recollect once 
he told me, when I was admiring a distant 
prospect in one of our morning walks, that the 
sight of so many smoking cottages gave a 
pleasure to his mind, which none could under- 
stand who had not witnessed, like himself, 
the happiness and the worth which they con- 
tained. 

" In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was orginally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret 
at the levity with which he had heard it 
treated occasionally in some convivial meet- 
ings which he frequented. I speak of him as 
he was in the winter of 178G-7 ; for afterwards 
we met but seldom, and our conversations 
turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his 
private affairs. 

" I do net recollect whether it appears or 
not from any of your letters to me, that yo~i 
had ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is super- 
fluous for me to add, that the idea which his 
conversation conveyed of the powers of his 
mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is 
suggested by his writings. Among the poets 
whom I have happened to know, I have bean 
struck, in more than one instance, with the 
unaccountable disparity between their general 
talents, and the occasional inspirations of 
their move favourable moments. But all the 
faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as I 
could judge, equally vigorous; and his pre « 
dilection for poetry was rather the result of 
his own enthusiastic and impassioned^iemper, 
than of a genius exclusively adapted to that 
species of composition. From his conversa- 
tion I should have pronounced him to be fitted 
to excel in whatever walk of ambition he 
had chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was ac 
customed to dwell, the characters of the in 

* The Editor ha? scon and conversed with Burns, 



36 THE LIFE 

dividual:* with •whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he 
made on them were always shrewd and 
pointed, though frequently inclining too much 
to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved 
was sometimes indiscriminate and extrava- 
gant; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather 
from the caprice and humour of the moment, 
than from the effects of attachment in blind- 
ing his judgment. His wit was ready, and 
always impressed with the marks of a vigor- 
ous understanding ; but to my taste, not often 
pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, 
in his printed works, are the only perfor- 
mances, perhaps, that be has produced, totally 
unworthy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I 
think that he made a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and that he also 
visited what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground 
of Scotland, upon the banks of the Tiviot and 
the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during 
the preceding winter, of Burns's predilection 
for convivial, and not very select society, I 
should have concluded in favour of his habits 
of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under 
my own observation. He told me indeed him- 
self, that the weakness of his stomach was 
such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in 
his temperance. I was however somewhat 
alarmed about the effect of his now compara- 
tively sedentary and luxurious life, when he 
confessed to me, the first night he spent in my 
house after his winter's campaign in town, 
that he had been much disturbed when in bed, 
by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, 
was a complaint to which he had of late be- 
come subject. 

" In the course of the same season I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a 
Mason-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some 
short, unpremeditated compliments to different 
individuals from whom he had no reason to 
expect a visit, and every thing he said was 
happily conceived, and forcibly as well as 
fluently expressed. If I am not mistaken, he 
told me, that in that village, before going 
to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
club of such of the inhabitants as had a taste 
for books, when they used to converse and 
debate on any interesting questions that oc- 
curred to them in the course of their reading. 
His manner of speaking in public had evi 



or BiraNSc 

' dently the marks of some practice in extern. 
pore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what 1 have 
always considered as characteristical in a 
high degree of true genius, the extreme 
facility and good-nature of his taste, in judg- 
ing of the compositions of others, where there 
was any real ground for praise. I repeated 
to him many passages of English poetry with 
which he was unacquainted, and have more 
than once witnessed the tears of admiration 
and rapture with which he heard them. The 
collection of songs by Dr. Aikin, which I 
first put into his hands, he read with unmixed 
delight, notwithstanding his former efforts 
in that very difficult species of writing ; and I 
have little doubt that it had some effect in 
polishing his subsequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his 
taste was equally sound. I once read to him 
a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which 
I thought very happily executed, upon the 
model of Addison ; but he did not appear to 
relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and 
spoke of them with indifference, when com- 
pared with the point, and antithesis, and 
quaintness of Junius. The influence of this 
taste is very perceptible in his own prose com- 
positions, although their great and various 
excellencies render some of them scarcely less 
objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- 
mances. The late Dr. Robertson used to say ? 
that considering his education, the former 
seemed to him the more extraordinary of the 
two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scotish dialect ; great 
part of them (he told me) he had learned in 
j his childhood from his mother, who delighted 
| in such recitations, and whose poetical 
taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is 
presumable, the first direction to her son's 
genius. 

" Of the" more polished verses which ac- 
cidentally fell into his hands in his early 
years, he mentioned particularly the recom- 
mendatory poems, by different authors, pre- 
fixed to Herveifs Meditations; a book which 
has always had a very wide circulation 
among such of the country people of Scotland, 
as affect to unite some degree of taste with 
their religious studies. And these poems (al- 



THE LIFE OP BURNS, 



37 



though they are certainly below mediocrity) 
he continued to read with a degree of rapture 
beyond expression. He took notice of this 
fact himself, as a proof how much the taste is 
liable to be influenced by accidental circum- 
stances. 

" His father appeared to me from the ac- 
count he gave of him, to have been a respec- 
table and worthy character, possessed of a 
mind superior to what might have been ex- 
pected from his station in life. He ascribed 
much of his own principles and feelings to the 
early impressions he had received from his 
instruction and example. I recollect that he 
once applied to him (and he added, that the 
passage was a literal statement of fact) the 
two last lines of the following passage in the 
Minstrel: the whole of which he repeated 
with great enthusiasm : 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, trough doom'd to perish, hope to live? 
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive, 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant 
reign. 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught: 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 



" With respect to Burns's early education, I 
cannot say any thing with certainty. He 
always spoke with respect and gratitude of 
the schoolmaster who had taught him to read 
English; and who, finding in his scholar a 
more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the gram- 
matical principles of the language. He began 
the study of Latin, but dropt it before he had 
finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard 
him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia 
vincit amor, §c. but they seemed to be such as 
he had caught from conversation, and which 
he repeated by rote. I think he had a project, 
after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting 
the study under his intimate friend, the late 
Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the gram- 
mar-school here ; but I do not know that he 
ever proceeded so far as to make the at- 
tempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a 
word or phrase from that language. It is 
possible that his knowledge in this respect 
night be more extensive than 1 suppose it to 



be ; but this you can learn from his more in- 
timate acquaintance. It would be worth 
while to inquire, whether he was able to read 
the French authors with such facility as to 
receive from them any improvement to his 
taste. For my own part, I doubt it much ; nor 
would I believe it, but on very strong and 
pointed evidence. 

"If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of 
surveying — All his other attainments were en- 
tirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1788-89,* when he passed an even- 
ing with me at Drumseugh, in the neighbour- 
hood of Edinburgh, where I was thee living. 
My friend Mr. Alison was the only other per- 
son in company. I never saw him more 
agreeable or interesting. A present which 
Mr. Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays 
on Taste, drew from Burns a letter of acknow- 
ledgment which I remember to have read 
with some degree of surprise at the distinct 
conception he appeared from it to have formed 
of the general principles of the doctrine of 
association. When I saw Mr. Alison in Shrop- 
shire last autumn, I forgot to inquire if the 
letter be still in existence. If it is, you may 
easily procure it, by means of our friend Mr . 
Houlbrooke/'t 



The scene that opened on our bard in Edin- 
burgh was altogether new, and in a variety of 
other respects highly interesting, especially to 
one of his disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself, '• sud- 
denly translated from the veriest shades of 
life," into the presence, and indeed, into the 
society of a number of persons, previously 
known to him by report as of the highest dis- 
tinction in his country, and whose characters 
it was natural for him to examine with no 
common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his re- 
ception was particularly flattering. The late 
Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Mr 
Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Frazcr 

* Or gather 1789-90. I cannot speak with confidence 
with respect to the particular year. Some of my other 
dates may possibly require correction, as I keep no journal 
of such occurrences. 

t This letter is No. CXIV. 



38 



THE LIFE OF BUHKTS. 



Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of those 
who perceived his uncommon talents, who 
acknowledged more especially his powers in 
conversation, and who interested themselves 
in the cultivation of his genius. In Edinburgh 
literary and fashionable society are a good 
deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest 
in the gayest and most elevated circles, and 
frequently received from female beauty and 
elegance, those attentions above all others 
most grateful to him. At the table of Lord 
Monboddo he was a frequent guest ; and 
while he enjoyed the society, and partook of 
the hospitalities of the venerable judge, he 
experienced the kindness and condescension of 
his lovely and accomplished daughter, The 
singular beauty of this young lady was il- 
luminated by that happy expression of counte- 
nance which results from the union of culti- 
vated taste and superior understanding, with 
the finest affections of the mind. The influence 
of such attractions was not unfelt by our 
poet. " There has not been any thing like 
Miss Burnet, (said he in a letter to a friend,) 
in all the combination of beauty, grace, and 
goodness the Creator has formed, since Mil- 
ton's Eve on the first day of her existence." 
In his Address to Edinburgh, she is celebrated 
in a strain of still greater elevation : 

«' Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties ou my fancy shine ! 

I see the Sire of Love on high, 
And own his work indeed divine !" 

This lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of youth. Our bard ex- 
pressed his sensibility on that occasion, in 
verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion, Burns 
was particularly distinguished by James Earl 
of Glencairn. On the motion of this noble- 
man, the Caledonian. Hunt, an association of 
the principal of the nobility and gentry of 
Scotland, extended their patronage to our 
bard, and admitted him to their gay orgies. 
He repaid their notice by a dedication of 
the enlarged and improved edition of his 
poems, in which he has celebrated their 
patriotism and independence in very animated 
terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the blood 
of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; 
and that, from your courage, knowledge, and 
public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. * * * * May 
corruption shrink at your kindling indig- 
nant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and 



licentiousness in the People, equally find In 
you an inexorable foe !"* 



It is to be presumed that these generous 
sentiments, uttered at an era singularly pro- 
pitious to independence of character and con- 
duct, were favourably received by the persons 
to whom they were addressed, and that they 
were echoed from every bosom, as well as 
from that of the Earl of Glencairn. This 
accomplished nobleman, a scholar, a man of 
taste and sensibility, died soon afterwards. 
Had he lived, and had his power equalled his 
wishes, Scotland might still have exulted in 
the genius, instead of lamenting the early fate 
of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and regularity ; and 
Edinburgh, at the period of which we speak, 
contained perhaps an uncommon proportion 
of men of considerable talents, devoted to 
social excesses, in which their talents were 
wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this 
description, with the usual vehemence of his 
character. His generous affections, his ardent 
eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagina- 
tion, fitted him to be the idol of such associa- 
tions; and accustoming himself to conversa- 
tion of unlimited range, and to festive indul- 
gences that scorned restraint, he gradually 
lost some portion of his relish for the more 
pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found 
in the circles of taste, elegance, and litera- 
ture. The sudden alteration in his habits 
of life operated on him physically as well as 
morally. The humble fare of an Ayrshire 
peasant he had exchanged for the luxuries of 
the Scotish metropolis, and the effects of this 
change on his ardent constitution could not 
be inconsiderable. But whatever influence 
might be produced on his conduct, his excel- 
lent understanding suffered no corresponding 
debasement. He estimated his friends and 
associates of every description at their proper 
value, and appreciated his own conduct with 
a precision that might give scope to much 
curious and melancholy reflection. He saw 
his danger, and at times formed resolutions to 
guard against it ; but he had embarked on the 
tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 
stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an 



* See Dedication prefixed to the Pccms. 









authentic though imperfect document remains, 
in a book which he procured in the spring of 
1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs 
us, of recording in it whatever seemed worthy 
of observation. The following extracts may 
serve as a specimen : 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 39 

light, shall be occasionally inserted. — In 
short, never did four shillings purchase so 
much friendship, since confidence went first 
to market, or honesty was set up to sale. 



Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 
" As I have seen a good deal of human life 
in Edinburgh, a great many characters which 
are new to one bred up in the shades of life as 
I .have been, I am determined to take down 
my remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a 
letter to Mr. Palgrave, that ' half a word 
fixed, upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart 
load of recollection.' I don't know how it is 
with the world in general, but with me, mak- 
ing my remarks is by no means a solitary 
pleasure. I want some one to laugh with 
me, some one to be grave with me, some one 
to please me and help my discrimination, with 
his or her own remark, and at times, no 
doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetra- 
tion. The world are so busied with selfish 
pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleas- 
ure, that very few think it worth their while 
to make any observation on what passes 
around them, except where that observation 
is a sucker, or branch of the darling plant 
they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I 
sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philo- 
sophy of moralists, whether we are capable 
of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friend- 
ship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, 
his every thought and floating fancy, his very 
inmost soul, with unreserved confidence to 
another, without hazard of losing part of that 
respect which man deserves from man ; or, 
from the unavoidable imperfections attending 
human nature, of one day repenting his con- 
fidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to 
make these pages my confidant, 1 will sketch 
every character that any way strikes me, to 
the best of my power, with unshrinking 
justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take 
down remarks, in the old law phrase, uithout 
feud or favour. — Where 1 hit on any thing 
clever, my own applause will, in some meas- 
ure, feast my vanity ; and, begging Patroclus' 
and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key 
a security, at least equal to the bosom of any 
friend whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my love- 
adventures, my rambles ; the frowns and 
smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems 
and fragments, that must never see the 



" To these seemingly invidious, but too just 
ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully 
make one exception— the connexion between 
two persons of different sexes, when their 
interests are united and absorbed by the tie 
of love — 

When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart 

There confidence, confidence that exalts them 
the more in one another's opinion, that en- 
dears them the more to each other's hearts, 
unreservedly " reigns and revels." But this 
is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am 
wise, (which, by the bye, I have no great 
chance of being,) my fate should be cast with 
the Psalmist's sparrow, " to watch alone on 
the house-tops." — Oh ! the pity ! 



" There are few of the sore evils under the 
sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin than 
the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of 
avowed worth, is received every where, with 
the reception which a mere ordinary char- 
acter, decorated with the trappings and futile 
distinctions of fortune meets. 1 imagine a 
man of abilities, his breast glowing with 
honest pride, conscious that men are born 
equal, still giving honour to whom honour is 
due ; he meets at a great man's table, a Squire 
something, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the 
noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or 
whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, 
beyond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how 
will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose 
abilities would scarcely have made an eight- 
penny tailor, and whose heart is not worth 

three farthings, meet with attention and notice, 
that are withheld from the son of genius and 
poverty ? 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to 
the soul here, because I dearly esteem, re- 
spect, and love him. He showed so much 
attention, engrossing attention one day, to 
the only blockhead at table (the whole 
company consisted of his lordship, dun- 
derpate, and myself,) that I* was within half 
a point of throwing down my gage of con- 
temptuous defiance ; but he shook my 
hand, and looked so benevolently good at 
parting. God bless him ! though I should 
never see him more, I shall love him until my 



40 



THE LIFE OF BURNS- 



dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so 
capable of the throes of gratitude, as 1 am 
miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I 
never respect him with humble veneration ; 
but when he kindly interests himself in my 
welfare, or still more, when he descends from 
his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground 
in conversation, my heart overflows with 
what is called liking. When he neglects me 
for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his 
eye measures the difference of our points of 
elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely any 
emotion, what do I care for him or his pomp 
either ?" 



The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. He has inserted in it 
few or no incidents, but several observations 
and reflections, of which the greater part 
that are proper for the public eye, will be 
found interwoven in his letters. The most 
curious particulars in the book are the 
delineations of the characters he met with. 
These are not numerous j but they are chiefly 
of persons of distinction in the republic of 
letters, and nothing but the delicacy and re- 
spect due to_living characters prevents us 
from committing them to the press. Though 
it appears that in his conversation he was 
sometimes disposed to sarcastic remarks on 
the men with whom he lived, nothing of this 
kind is discoverable in these more deliberate 
efforts of his understanding, which, while 
they exhibit great clearness of discrimina- 
tion, manifest also the wish, as well as the 
power, to bestow high and generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we 
give in this edition, the character of Dr. 
Blair, who has now paid the debt of na- 
ture, in the full confidence that this freedom 
will not be found inconsistent with the re- 
spect and veneratidh due to that excellent 
man, the last star in the literary constellation, 
by which the metropolis of Scotland was, in 
the earlier part of the present reign so beauti- 
fully illuminated. 

' It is not easy forming an exact judgment 
of any one ; but, in my opinion, Dr. Blair is 
merely an astonishing proof of what industry 
and application can do. Natural parts like 
his are frequently to be met with ; his vanity 
is proverbially known among his acquain- 
tance ; but he is justly at the head of what 



may be called fine writing ; and a critic of the 
first, the very first rank in prose ; even in 
poetry, a bard of Nature's making can only 
take the pas of him. He has a heart, not of 
the very finest ; water, but far from being an 
ordinary one. In short, he is truly a worthy, 
and most respectable character." 



By the new edition of his poems, Burns 
acquired- a syu\ of money that enabled him 
not only to partake of the pleasures of Edin- 
burgh, but to gratify a desire he had long 
entertained, of ^visiting those parts of his na- 
tive country, most attractive by their beauty 
or their grandeur ; a desire which the return 
of summer naturally revived. The scenery 
on the banks of the Tweed, and of its tri- 
butary streams, strongly interested his fancy ; 
and accordingly he left Edinburgh on the 6tfi 
of May, 1787, on a tour through a country so 
much celebrated in the rural songs of Scot- 
land. He travelled on horseback, and was 
accompanied, during some partof his journey, 
by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a 
gentleman who enjoyed much of his friend- 
ship and, of his confidence. Of this tour a 
journal remains, which, however, contains 
only occasional remarks on the scenery, and 
which is chiefly occupied with an account of 
the author's different stages, and with his 
observations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of 
this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie of Berry well, 
the father of his companion; Mr. Brydone, 
the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried 
a letter of introduction from Mr. Mackenzie ; 
the Rev. Dr. Sommerville of Jedburgh, the 
historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope ; 
Dr. Elliot, a physician, retired to a romantic 
spot on the banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexan- 
der Don ; Sir James Hall of Dunglass ; and 
a great variety of other respectable charac- 
ters. Every where the fame of the poet 
had spread before him, and every where 
he received the most hospitable and flat, 
tering attentions. At Jedburgh he con- 
tinued several days, and was honoured by 
the magistrates with the freedom <of their 
borough. The following may serve as a 
specimen of this tour, which the perpetual re- 
ference to living characters prevents our giving 
at large. 

"Saturday, May 6th. Left Edinburgh — 
Lammer-muir-hills, miserably dreary in gen- 
eral, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



41 



Merse. Reach Berrywell ' * * * The 
family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, 
very charming ; particularly the sister. * * 



" Sunday. Went to 
Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 



church at Bunse. 



" Monday. Coldstream— glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge— dine 
at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. 
Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute 
about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel-House 
with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. * * * Re- 
ception extremely flattering. Sleep at Cold- 
stream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso— charming 
situation of the town— fine bridge over the 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both sides of the river, especially dn the 
Scotch side. * * Visit Roxburgh Palace- 
fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Cas- 
tle — a holly -bush growing where James II was 
accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin, and a fine 
old garden planted by the religious, rooted 
out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a mattre 
dlioiel of the Duke's— Climate and soil of 
Berwickshire and even Roxburghshire, su- 
perior to Ayrshire— bad roads— turnip and 
sheep husbandry, their great improvements. 

* * * Low markets, consequently low 
lands— magnificence of farmers and farm- 
houses. Come up the Tiviot, and up the Jed 
to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself good- 
night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. 

* * * Charming romantic situation of Jed- 
burgh ,with gardens and orchards, intermingled 
among the houses and the ruins of a once 
magnificent cathedral. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but 
extremely idle.— Jed, a fine romantic little 
river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, * * * 
return to Jedburgh. Walk up the Jed with 
some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and 
Blackburn, two fairy-scenes. Introduced to 
Mr. Potts, writer, and to Mr. Sommerville, 
the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a 
gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. 



" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

" Took "farewell of Jedburgh with some 
melancholy sensations. 

" Monday, May Uth, Kelso. Dine with the 



farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high 
matters— each of them keeps a hunter from 
£30 to £50 value, and attends the fox-hunt, 
ing club in the country. Go out with Mr. 
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. 
Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, 
Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear ,old 
friend Robert Muir— every thing in his house 
elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don • 
a very wet day. * * * Sleep at Mr. Ker's 
again, and set out next day for Melross— visit 
Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey, by the 
way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
Tweed to Melross. Dine there, and visit 
that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Sel- 
kirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole 
country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Et- 
trick, remarkably stony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. Hood, 
two gentlemen with whom he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his tour, accom- 
panied him. He visited Alnwick-Castle, the 
princely seat of the Duke of Northumber- 
land; the hermitage and old castle of Warks- 
worth; Morpeth, and Newcastle.— In this 
last town he spent two days, and then pro- 
ceeded to the south-west by Hexham and 
Wardrue, to Carlisle. — After spending a day 
at Carlisle with his friend Mr. Mitchell, he 
returned into Scotland, and at Annan his jour- 
nal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he be- 
came acquainted in the course of this journey, 
he has, in general, given some account;, and 
almost always a favourable one. That on the 
banks of the Tweed, and of the Tiviot, our 
bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, 
is what might be confidently presumed. Two 
of these are particularl jldescribed in his jour- 
nal. But it does not appear that the scen- 
ery, or its inhabitants, produced any effort of 
his muse, as was to have been wished and ex- 
pected. From Annan, Burns proceeded to 
Dumfries, and thence through Sanquhar, to 
Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where 
he arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after a 
long absence of six bWy and eventful 
months. It will easily be conceived with 
what pleasure and pride he was received by 
his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had 
left them poor, and comparatively friendless : 
G 



42 



THE LIFJG OF BURNS. 



he returned to them high in public estimation, 
and easy in his circumstances. He returned 
to them unchanged in his ardent affections 
and ready to share with them to the utter- 
most farthing, the pittance that fortune had 
bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, 
he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and im- 
mediately set out on a journey to the High- 
lands. Of this tour no particulars have been 
found among his manuscripts. A letter to his 
friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Cro- 
chiiirbas, by Lochleary June 28, 1787, commen- 
ces as follows : * 

" I write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with sa- 
vage flocks, which starvingly support as sa- 
vage inhabitants. My last stage was Invera- 
ry — to-morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I 
ought sooner to haye answered your kind 
letter, but you know I am a man of many 
sins." 

Part of a letter from our Bard to a friend, 
giving some account of his journey, has been 
communicated to the Editor since the pub- 
lication of the last edition." The reader will 
be amused with the following extract : 

" On our return, at a Highland gentleman's 
hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry 
party, and danced till the ladies left us, at 
three in theTnorning. Our dancing was none 
«f the French or English insipid formal move- 
ments ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like an- 
gels, at inters r als ; then we flew at Bab at the 
Eowster, Tullochgorum, Loch Krroch side,* &c. 
like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or 
craws prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. 
—When the dear lasses left us, we ranged 
round the bowl till the good-fellow hour of 
six: : except a few minutes that we went out to 
pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day 
peering over the towering top of Benlomond. 
We all kneeled; ou^ worthy landlord's son 
held the bowl ; each m«m a full glass in his 
hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhy- 
ming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's pro- 
phecies I suppose. — After a small refreshment 
of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend 
the day on Lochlomond, and reached Dum- 
barton in the evening. We dined at another 
goodfellow's ho.d^, and consequently pushed 
tlje bottle; when we went out to mount our 
3 we found ourselves " No vera fou but 
tjaylie yet." My two friends and I rode so- 

• Scotch tunes. 



berly down the Loch-side, till by came a 
Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had never known the 
ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to 
be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
started, whip and spur. My companions, 
though seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly 
astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one 
of the Rosinante family, she strained past the 
Highlandman in spite of all his efforts, with 
the hair-halter : just as 1 was passing him, 
Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross be- 
fore me to mar my progress, when down came 
his horse, and threw his rider's breekless a — e 
in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny Ged- 
des over all, and my hardship between her and 
the Higblandman's horse. Jenny Geddes 
trode over me with such cautious reverence, 
that matters were not so bad as might well 
have been expected ; so I came off with a few 
cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution to 
be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect 
to the serious business of life. I am, just as 
usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, 
aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall some- 
where have a farm soon. I was going to say, 
a wife too : but that must never be my blessed 
lot. I am but a younger son of the house of 
Parnassus, and like other younger sons of 
great families, L may intrigue, if I choose to 
run all risks, but must not marry. . 

, " I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the principal one indeed, of my former 
happiness ; that eternal propensity I always 
had to fall in love. My heart no more glows 
with feverish rapture. I have no paradisical 
evening interviews stolen from the restless 
cares and prying inhabitants of this weary 
world. I have only "**.*; This last 
is one of your distant acquaintances, has a fine 
figure, and elegant manners ; and in the train 
of some great folks whom you know, has seen 
the politest quarters in Europe. I do like her 
a good deal; but what piques me is her con- 
duct at the commencement of our acquaintance 

I frequently visited her when I was in — , 

and after passing regularly, the intermediate 
degrees between the distant formal bow and 
the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured 
in my careless way to talk of friendship in rath- 
er ambiguous terms ; and after her return to 

, I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, 

construing my words farther I suppose than 
even I intended, flew off in a tangent of fe- 
male dignity and reserve, like a mountain-lark 
in an April morning : and wrote me an an- 
swer which measured me out very completely 
what an immense way I had to travel before 1 



THE LIFE 

could reach the climate of her favour. But I | 
am an old hawk at the sport; and wrote 
her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial towerings* i 
pop down at my foot like corporal Trim's | 
hat. 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
and all my wise sayings, and why my mare | 
was called Jenny Geddes; they shall be re- 
corded in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, 
in the chronicles of your memory, by 

"Robert Burns." 



From this journey Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his* friendships-, 
and extending his acquaintance throughout 
the county, where he was now very generally 
known and admired In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook 
another journey towards the middle of this 
month, in company with Mr. M. Adair, now 
Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this 
gentleman has favoured us with the following 
account . 

" Burns and 1 left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- 
works at Carron, with which the poet 
was forcibly struck. The resemblance be- 
tween that place, and its inhabitants, to the 
cave. of the Cyclops, which must have occur- 
red to every classical reader, presented itself 
to Burns. At Stirling the prospects from the 
castle- strongly interested him ; in a former 
visit to which, his national feelings had been 
powerfully excited by the ruinous and roofless 
state of the hall in which the Scotish parlia- 
ments had been held. His indignation had 
vented itself in some imprudent, butnotunpo- 
etical lines, which had given much offence, 
and*which he took this opportunity of erasing, 
by breaking the pane of the window at the 
inn on which they were written, 

"At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the 
teachers of the High Grammar-School at 
Edinburgh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; the same fondness for convivial so- 
| ciety, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
characterized both. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them; and 
these have been suspected, since the revolution 



OF BURNS. 43 

of France, to have given place in each, to opin- 
ions apparently opposite. I regcet that I 
have preserved no memorabilia of their conv6i- 
sation, either on this or on other occasions, 
when 1 happened to meet them together. 
Many songs were sung ; w r hich I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was 
called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- 
stead of singing, to recite one or other of his 
own shorter poems, with a tone and empha- 
sis, which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did 
on the present occasion. 

" From Stirling f we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of DevoD 
to Harvieston in Clackmannanshire, then in- 
habited by Mrs. Hamilton, with the younger 
part of whose fanjily Burns had been previ- 
ously acquainted. He introduced me to the 
family, and there was formed my first ac- 
quaintance with Mrs. Hamilton's eldest 
daughter, to whom I have been married for 
nine years. Thus was I indebted to Burns 
for a connexion from which I have derived, 
and expect further to derive, ituch happi- 



" During a residence of about ten days at 
Harvieston, we made excursions to visit vari- 
ous parts of the sur refunding scenery, inferior 
to none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and 
romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- 
bell, the ancient seat of the family of Argyle ; 
and the famous Cataract of the Devon, called 
the Caldron Linn; and the Rumbling Bridge^ a 
single broad arch, thrown by the Bevil, if 
tradition is to be believed, across the river, at 
about the height of a hundred feet above its 
bed. 1 am surprised that none of these scenes 
should have called forth an exertion of Burns's 
muse. But I doubt if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. I well remember, that the 
ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on 
this jaunt, expressed their disappointment at 
his not expressing in more glowing and fervid 
language, his impressions of the Caldron Linn 
scene, certainly highly swdime, and somewhat 
horrible. 

" A visit to MrsV Bruce of Clackmannan, a 
lad% above ninety, .the lineal descendant of 
that race which gave the Scotish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings 
more powerfully. This venerable dame, with 
characteristical dignity, inrroned me on my 
observing that I believed she was descended 
from the family of Robert Bruce, that Robert 
Bruce was sprung from her family. Though 
almost deprived of speech by a paralytic affec* 



44 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



tion, she preserved her hospitality and urban- 
ity. She was in possession of the hero's 
helmet and two-handed sword, with which 
she conferred on Bums and myself the hon- 
our of knighthood, remarking, that she had a 
better right to confer that title than some people. 
* * You will of course conclude that the old 
lady's political tenets were as Jacobitical as 
the poet's, a conformity which contributed not 
a little to the cordiality of our reception and 
entertainment. — She gave us as her first toast 
after dinner, Awa' Uncos, or Away with the 
Strangers. — Who these strangers were, you 
will readily understand. Mrs. A. corrects 
me by saying it should be Tdooi, or Hooi uncos, 
a sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs 
to drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queen's-ferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of 
Poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at 
Kinross, or had died there a short while 
before. A meeting between the bards, or a 
visit to the deserted cottage and early grave 
of poor Bruce, would have been highly inter- 
esting.* 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruined 
abbey and the abbey church, now consecrated 
to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutty stool, or stooi of repentance, assum- 
ing the character of a penitent for fornication ; 
while Burns from the pulpit addressed to me 
a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied 
from that which had been delivered to himself 
in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat 
of shame together. 

*' In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common Vener- 
ation. He knelt and kissed the stone with 
sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut mos crat) 
execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of 
the lirst of Scotish heroes."t 

jC 

I 

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adai^ in 
his excellent letter, that the romantic scCTery 
of the Devon should have failed to call forth 
any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its 
nature singular^and the disappointment felt 
at his not expressing in more glowing lan- 
guage his emotions on the sight of the famous 

• Hruce died pome years before. E. 
■f Extracted from a letter of Br Adair to the Editor; 



cataract of that river, is similar to what was, 
felt by the friends of Burns on other occasions 
of the same nature. Yet the inference that 
Dr. Adair seems inclined to draw from it, 
that he had little taste for the picturesque, 
might be questioned, even if it stood uncontro- 
verted by other evidence. The muse of Burns 
was in a high degree capricious ; she came 
uncalled, and often refused to attend at his 
bidding. Of all the numerous subjects sug- 
gested to him by his friends and correspond- 
ents, there is scarcely one that he adopted. 
The very expectation that a particular occa- 
sion would excite the energies of flncy, if 
communicated to Burns, seemed in him, as in 
other poets, destructive of the effect expec- 
ted. Hence perhaps may be explained, why 
the banks of the Devon and of the Tweed 
form no part of the subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion with which he 
viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly there are 
no affections of the mind more deadened by 
the influence of previous expectation, than 
those arising from the sight of natural objects, 
and more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Minute descriptions of scenes, of a sublime 
nature, should never be given to those who 
are about to view them, particularly if they 
are persons of great strength and sensibility 
of imagination. Language seldom or never 
conveys an adequate idea of such objects, but 
in the mind of a great poet it may excite a 
picture that far transcends them. The ima- 
gination of Burns might form a cataract, in 
comparison with which the Caldron Linn 
should seem the purling of a rill, and even 
the mighty falls of Niagara, an humble cas- 
cade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist in ex- 
plaining our Bard's deficiency of impression 
on the occasion referred to, or whether it 
ought rather to be imputed to some pre-cccu- 

* This reasoning might be extended, with some modifi- 
cations, to objects of sight of every kind. To have formed 
before-hand a distinct picture in the mind, of any inter- 
esting person or thing, generally lessens the pleasure of the 
first meeting with them. Though this picture be not su- 
perior, or even equal to the reality, still it can never be 
expected to be an exact resemblance ; and the disappoint- 
ment felt at finding the object something different from 
what was expected, interrupts and diminishes the emotions 
that would otherwise he produced. In such cases the 
second or third interview gives more pleasure than the 
first.— See the Elements of the Philosophy of the 
Human Mind, by Mr. Stewart, p. 484. Such publica- 
tions as The Guide to the Lakes, where every scene is 
described in the most minute manner, and sometimes with 
considerable exaggeration of language, are in this point of 
view objectionable. 



THE LIFE 

pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume 
not to decide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in 
scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- 
dence. It is true this pleasure was greatly 
heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind 
with which it happily unites. That u nder this 
association Burns contemplated the scenery of 
the Devon with the eye of a genuine poet, 
some lines which he wrote at this very period, 
may bear witness.* 

The different journeys already mentioned 
-did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About 
the beginning of September, he again set out 
from Edinburgh on a more extended tour to 
the Highlands, in company with Mr 3 Nicol, 
with whom he had now contracted a par- 
ticular intimacy, which lasted during the re- 
mainder of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dum- 
friesshire, of a descent equally humble with 
our poet. Like him he rose by the strength of 
his talents, and fell by the strength of his pas- 
sions. He died in the summer of 1797. Hav- 
ing received the elements of a classical in- 
struction at his parish-school, Mr. Nicol 
made a very rapid and singular proficiency ; 
and by early undertaking the office of an 
instructor himself, he acquired the means of 
entering himself at the University of Edin- 
burgh. There he was first a student of theo- 
logy, then a student of medicine, and was 
afterwards employed in the assistance and in- 
struction of graduates in medicine, in those 
parts of their exercises in which the Latin 
language is employed. In this situation he 
was the contemporary and rival of the cele- 
brated Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the 
particulars of his history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The office 
of assistant-teacher in the High-school being 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by com- 
petition : and in the face of some prejudices, 
and perhaps of some well-founded objections, 
Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, carried it 
from all the other candidates. This office he 
filled at the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaintance 
with the writers of Greece and Rome does 
not always supply an original want of taste 
and correctness in manners and conduct ; and 
where it fails of this effect, it sometimes in- 
flames the native pride of temper, which treats 
with disdain those delicacies in which it ha? 
not learned to excel. It was thus with the 

* See the song beginning, 

" Kcw pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon.** 
Poems page 78. 



OP BURNS. 45 

fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed by nature 
in a model of great strength, neither his per- 
son nor his manners had any tincture of taste 
or elegance ; and his coarseness was not 
compensated by that romantic sensibility, and 
those towering flights of imagination which 
distinguished the conversation of Burns, in 
the blaze of whose genius all the deficiencies 
of his manners were absorbed and disap- 
peared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey, 
and passing through the heart of the High- 
lands, stretched northwards, about ten miles 
beyond Inverness. There they bent their 
course eastward, across the island, and re- 
turned by the shore of the German sea to 
Edinburgh. In the course of this tour, some 
particulars of which will be found in a lette* 
of our bard, No. XXX. they visited a number 
of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of 
Burns was constantly excited by the wild and 
sublime scenery through which he passed. 
Of this several proofs may be found in the 
poems formerly printed.* Of the history of 
one- of these poems, The Humble Petition 
of Bruar Water, and of the bard's visit 
to Athole House, some particulars will be 
found in No. XXIX ; and by the favour of 
Mr. Walker of Perth, then residing in the 
family of the Duke of Athole, we are enabled 
to give the following additional account : 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
his arrival (as I had been previously ac- 
quainted with him,) and I hastened to meet 
him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he 
brought a letter of introduction, was. from 
home ; but the Dutchess, being informed of 
his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup and 
sleep at Athole House. He accepted the 
invitation ; but as the hour of supper was at 
some distance, begged I would in the interval 
be his guide through the grounds. It was 
already growing dark ; yet the softened 
though faint and uncertain view of their 
beauties, which the rifoonlight afforded us, 
seemed exactly suited to the state of his feel- 
ings at the time. I had often, like others, 
experienced the pleasures which arise from 
the sublime or elegant landscape, but I never 
saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
When we reached a rustic hut on the river 

* See « Li nes on scaring some water-fowl in Loch- 
Turit, a wild scene among the hills of Ochtertyrc." 
" Lines written with a Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 
in the Inn at Kenmcre, Tayniouth." " Lines written 
with a pencil standing by the fall of Fyers, near Loch- 
ness." 



46 



Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody preci- 
pice, from which there is a noble water-fall, 
he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave 
himself up to a tender, abstracted, and vo- 
luptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I can- 
not help thinking it might have been here 
that he conceived the idea of the following 
lines, which he afterwards introduced into his 
poem on Bruar Water, when only fancying 
such a combination of objects as were now 
present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, * 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevailed 
on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced 
in proper time to supper. 

" Mv curiosity was great to see how he 
would conduct himself in company so different 
frora what he bad been accustomed to.* His 
manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. 
He appeared to have complete reliance on his 
own native good sense for directing his be- 
haviour. He seemed at once to perceive and 
to appreciate what was due to the company and 
to himself, and never to forget a proper re- 
spect for the separate species of dignity be- 
longing to each. He did not arrogate conver- 
sation, but, when led into it, he spoke with 
ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to 
exert his abilities, because he knew it was 
ability alone gave him a title to be there. 
The Duke's fine young family attracted much 
of his admiration ; he drank their healths as 
honest men and bonnie lasses, an idea which 
was much applauded by the company, and 
with which he has very felicitously closed his 
poem.f 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his 
conversation. As a specimen of his happiness 
of conception and strength of expression, I 
will mention a remark which he made on his 
fellow-traveiler, who was walking at the time 
a few paces before us. He was a man of a 
robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns 
was expressing to me the value he entertained 
for him on account of his vigorous talents, 
although they were clouded at times by 
coarseness of manners ,; ' in short/ he added, 

• Tn the preceding winter, Burns had been in company 
of Use highest rank in Edinburgh ; but this description of 
hi* manners is perfectly applicable to his first appearance 
In such society. 

i bee The Humble Petition of Bruar Water. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

' his mind is like his body, he has a confound 
ed strong, in-kneed sort of a soul/ 



" Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which 
he was perfectly sensible, without being vain ; 
and at his departure I recommended to him, 
as the most appropriate return he could make, 
to write some descriptive verses on any of the 
scenes with which he had been so much 
delighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the 
Duke's advice, visited the Falls of Bruar, and 
in a few days I received a letter from Inver- 
ness, with the verses enclosed."* 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble family of Athole, was in a 
high degree favourable ; it is certain he was 
charmed with the reception he received front 
them, and he often mentioned the two days he 
spent at Athole House as amongst the happiest 
of his life. He was warmly invited to prolong 
his stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his 
engagement with Mr. Nicol; which is the more 
to be regretted, a3 he would otherwise have 
been introduced to Mr. Dundas (then daily 
expected on a visit to the Duke,) a circum- 
stance that might have had a favourable in- 
fluence on Burns's future fortunes. At Athole 
House he met, for the first time, Mr. Graham 
of Fintry, to whom he was afterward indebt- 
ed for his office in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed 
to Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sensi- 
bility, and justify the supposition, that he 
would not have been deficient in gratitude 
had he been elevated to a situation better 
suited to his disposition and to his talents.f 

A feAV days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. In the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Dutchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and pre- 
suming on this 'acquaintance, he proceeded 
to Gordon-Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the 
inn in the village. At the castle our poet was 
received with the utmost hospitality and kind- 
ness, and the family being about to sit down 
to dinner, he was invited to take his place at 
table as a matter of course. This invitation 
he accepted, and after drinking a few glasses 
of wine, he rose up, and proposed to with- 
draw. On being pressed to stay, he mentioned 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mr. Cunning- 
ham. See Letter No. XXIX. 

t See the first Epistle to Air.. Graham, soliciting an 
employment in the Excise, Letter No. LVI. and his second 
Epistle, Poems, p. 65. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



47 



for the first time, his engagement with his 
fellow-traveller: and his noble host offering 
to send a servant to conduct Mr. Nicol to the 
castle, Burns insisted on undertaking that 
office himself. He was, however, accompani- 
ed by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance 
of the Duke, by whom the invitation was de- 
livered in all the forms of politeness. The 
invitation came too late ; the pride of Nicol 
was inflamed into a high degree of passion, by 
the neglect which he had already suffered. 
He had ordered the horses to be put to the 
carriage, being determined to proceed on his 
journey alone ; and they found him parading 
the streets of Fochabers, before the door of 
the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, 
for the slowness with which he obeyed his 
commands. As no explanation nor entreaty 
could change the purpose of his fellow- trav- 
eller, oar poet was reduced to the necessity 
of separating from him entirely, or of instantly 
proceeding with him on their journey. He 
chose the last of these alternatives ; and seat- 
ing himself beside Nicol in the post-chaise 
with mortification and regret, he turned his^ 
back on Gordon Castle where he had promised 
himself some happy days. Sensible, however, 
of the great kindness of the noble family, he 
made the best return in his power, by the poem 
beginning, 

" Streams that g'.ide in orient plains."* 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again 
entered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of 
December, he attended a meeting to celebrate 
the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the 
Scotish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might 
have been the wish or purpose of the original 
institu tors of this annual meeting, there is no 
reason to suppose that the gentlemen of whom 
it was at this time composed, were not perfect- 
ly loyal to the King on the throne. It is not 
to be conceived that they entertained any hope 
of, any wish for, the restoration of the House 
of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling wine, they 
indulged the generous feelings which the re- 
collection of fallen greatness is calculated to 
inspire ; and commemorated the heroic valour 
which strove to sustain it in vain — valour 
worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier for- 
tune. On this occasion our bard took upon 
himself the office of poet-laureate, and pro- 
duced an ode, which though deficient in the 

* This information is extracted from a letter of Dr. 
Couper of Fochabers, to the Editor. 



complicated rhythm and polished versification 
that such compositions require, might on a 
fair competition, where energy of feelings and 
of expression were alone in question, have 
won the butt of Malmsey from the real laure- 
ate of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a speci- 
men : 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more : 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honoured, mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, 
Your King, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 

Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.* 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The 6nowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling 6peed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms tho cottage in the vale! 
So Vengeance • * * 



In relating the incidents of our poet's life in 
Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the 
sentiments of respect and sympathy with 
which he traced out the grave of his prede- 
cessor Fergusson, over whose ashes in the 
Canongate church-yard, he obtained leave to 
erect an humble monument, which will be 
viewed by reflecting minds with no common 
interest, and which will awake in the bosom 
of kindred genius, many a high emotion. t 
Neither should we pass over the continued 
friendship he experienced from a poet then 
living, the amiable and accomplished Black- 

* In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful 
imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a happier 
manner in the Chevalier's Lament. (See Letter, No. 
LXV.) But if there were no other reasons for omitting 
to print the entire poem, the want of originality would be 
sufficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for 
which indeed precedent may be cited in various other 
birth-day odes, but with which it is impossible to go 
along. 

f See Letters No. XIX. and XX. where the Epitaph 
will be found, &c. 



48 THE LIFE 

lock.— To his encouraging advice it was 
owing (as has already appeared) that Burns, 
instead of emigrating to the West Indies, re- 
paired to Edinburgh. He received him there 
with all the ardour of affectionate admiration ; 
he eagerly introduced him to the respectable 
circle of his friends ; he consulted his interest ; 
he blazoned his fame ; he lavished upon him 
all the kindness of a generous and feeling 
heart, into which nothing selfish or envious 
ever found admittance. Among the friends to 
whom he introduced Burns was Mr. Ramsay 
of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a visit 
in the Autumn of 1787, at his delightful retire- 
ment in the neighbourhood of Stirling, and on 
the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we have 
the following particulars : 



" I have been in the company of many men 
of genius," says Mr. Ramsay, " some of them 
poets ; but never witnessed such flashes of 
intellectual brightness as from him, the im- 
pulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire ! 
1 never was more delighted, therefore, than 
with his company for two days, tete-a-tete. 
In a mixed company I should have made 
little of him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, 
he did not always know when to play off and 
when to play on. * * * I not only pro- 
posed to him the writing cf a play similar 
to the Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet esse so- 
rorem, but Scotish Georgics, a subject which 
Thomson has by no means exhausted in his 
Seasons. What beautiful landscapes of rural 
life and manners might not have been expect- 
ed from a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, 
which could have exhibited scenes as familiar 
and interesting as those in the Gentle Shepherd, 
which every one who knows our swains in 
their unadulterated state, instantly recognises 
as true to nature. But to have executed 
either of these plans, steadiness and abstrac- 
tion from company were wanting, not talents. 
When I asked him whether the Edinburgh 
Literati had mended his poems by their criti- 
cisms. ' Sir,' said he, ' these gentlemen re- 
mind me of some spinsters in my country, who 
spin their thread 60 fine that it is neither fit 
for weft nor woof/ He said he had not 
changed a word except one, to please Dr. 
Blair."" 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. 
Creech, in February, 1788, Burns found him- 

• Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to the Editor.— 
This incorrigibility of Burns extended, however, only to 
his poems printed before he arrived in Edinburgh ; for in 
regard to his unpublished poenvs, he was amenable to 
criticism, of which many proofs might be given. See 
•omc remarks on this subject, in the Appendix. 



OF BURNS* 

self master of nearly five hundred pounds* 
after discharging all his expenses. Two hun- 
dred pounds he immediately advanced to his 
brother Gilbert, who had taken upon himself 
the support of their aged mother, and was 
struggling with many difficulties in the farm 
of Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, 
and some farther eventful profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling himself for 
life in the occupation of agriculture, and took 
from Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, the farm of 
Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at 
Whitsunday, 1788. Having been previously 
recommended to the Board of Excise, his 
name had been put on the list of candidates 
for the humble office of a gauger or excise- 
man ; and he immediately applied to acquiring 
the information necessary for filling that office, 
when the honourable Board might judge it 
proper to employ him. He expected to be 
called into service in the district in which his 
farm was situated, and vainly hoped to unite 
with success the labours of the farmer with 
the duties of the exciseman. 



When Burns had in this manner arranged 
his plans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of his most ardent at- 
tachment, and listening to no considerations 
but those of honour and affection, he joined 
with her in a public declaration of marriage, 
thus legalizing their union, and rendering it 
permanent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetry had recommended him 
to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Understanding 
that he intended to resume the life of a farm- 
er, Mr. Miller had invited him, in the spring of 
1787, to view his estate in Nithsdale, offering 
him at the same time the choice of any of his 
farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns 
and his friends might judge proper. It was 
not in the nature of Burns to take an undue 
advantage of the liberality of Mr. Miller. He 
proceeded in this business, however, with 
more than usual deliberation. Having made 
choice of the farm of Ellisland, he employed 
two of his friends, skilled in the value of land, 
to examine it, and with their approbation 
offered a rent to Mr. Miller, which was im- 
mediately accepted. It was not convenient for 
Mrs. Burns to remove immediately from Ayr- 
shire, and our poet therefore took up his resi- 
dence alone at Ellisland, to prepare for the 
reception of his wife and children, who joined 
him towards the end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now foun<£ 



THE LIFE 

himself was calculated to awaken reflection. 
The different steps he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might 
be said to have, in some measure, fixed his 
destiny. He had become a husband and a 
father ; he had engaged in the management of 
a considerable farm, a difficult and laborious 
undertaking ; in his success the happiness of 
his family was involved ; it was time, there- 
fore to abandon the gayety and dissipation of 
which he had been too much enamoured ; to 
ponder seriously on the past, and to form vir- 
tuous resolutions respecting the future. That 
such was actually the state of his mind, the 
following extract from his common-place book 
ficay bear witness : 

Ellisland, Sunday, l&th June, 1788. 

*? This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. « Lord, what is man V What 
a bustling little bundle of passions, appeti^s, 
ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious 
kind of existence he has here ! * * * There 
is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson 
gays, virtue sole survives. 

' Tell us ye dead 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are,, and we must shortly be ? 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the 
service, that I would almost at any time, with 
Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my mother's 
lap, and be at peace. ; - 

" But a wife and children bind me to strug- 
gle with the stream, till some sudden squall 
shall overset the silly vessel ; or in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to 
a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy fol- 
lies, those varnished vices, which, though 
half-sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit 
and humour, are at best but thriftless idling 
with the precious current of existence ; nay, 
often poisoning the whole, that, like the plains 
of Jericho, the water is naught and the ground 
barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally 
gified Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

*' Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were 
to be any thing with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in 
my present situation it was absolutely neces- 
sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of 
character, justice to my own happiness for 
after-life, so far as it could depend (which it 
surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all 



or BUHNS. 



49 



these joined their warmest suffrages, their 
most powerful solicitations, with a rooted at- 
tachment, to urge the step I have taken. Nor 
have I any reason on her part to repent it.— 
I can fancy how, but have never seen where, I 
could have made a better choice. Come, then, 
let me act up to my favourite motto, that glo- 
rious passage in Young— 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man !" 

Under the impulse of these reflections, 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding the 
dwelling-house on his farm, which, in the 
state he found it, was inadequate to the ac- 
commodation of his family. On this occasion, 
he himself resumed at times the occupation of 
a labourer, and found neither his strength nor 
his skill impaired. — Pleased with surveying 
the grounds he was about to cultivate, and 
with the rearing of a building that should 
give shelter to his wife and children, and, as 
he fondly hoped, to his own gray hairs, sen- 
timents of independence buoyed up his mind, 
pictures of domestic content and peace rose on 
his imagination ; and a few days passed away, 
as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, 
if not the happiest, which he had ever ex- 
perienced." 

It is to be lamented that at this critical pe- 
riod of his life, our poet was without the society 
of his wife and children* A great change had 
taken place in his situation ; his old habits 
were broken ; and the new circumstances in 
which he was placed were calculated to give 
a new direction to his thoughts and conduct.f 
But his application to the cares and labours 
of his farm was interrupted by several visits 
to his family in Ayrshire; and as the distance 
was too great for a single day's journey, he 
generally spent a night at an inn on the road. 
On such occasions he sometimes fell into 
company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed. In a little while temptation assailed 
him nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the at- 
tention of his neighbours, and he soon formed ;i 
general acquaintance in the district in which 

* Animated sentiments ofanyjfind, almost always gave 
rise in our poet to, some production of his muse. His sen* 
timents on this occasion were in part expressed by the 
vigorous and charateristic, though not very delicate song, 

beginning, 

" I liao a wife o* mj ain, 
I'll partake wi" nae-body ;" 

t Mrs. Burns was about to be confined in child-bed, and 
the house at Ellisland was rebuilding. 

II 



50 THE nrE 

he li ved . The public voice had now pronoun- 
ced on the subject of his talents ; the reception 
he had met with in Edinburgh had given him 
the currency which fashion bestows, he had sur- 
mount ed the prejudices arising from his hum- 
ble birth, and he was received at the table of 
the gentlemen of Nithsdale with welcome, 
with kindness, and even with respect. Their 
social parties too often seduced him from his 
rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew 
the unsteady fabric of hi3 resolutions, and in- 
flamed those propensities which temperance 
might have weakened, and prudence ultimate- 
ly suppresed.* It was not long, therefore, 
before Burns began to view his farm with 
dislike and despondence, if not with dis- 
gust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years look- 
ed to an office in the Excise as a certain means 
of livelihood, should his other expectations 
fail. As has already been mentioned, he had 
been recommended to the Board of Excise, 
and had received the instructions necessary 
for such a situation. He now applied to be 
employed ; and by the interest of Mr. Graham 
of Fintry, was appointed exciseman, or, as it 
is vulgarly called, gauger, of the district in 
which he lived. His farm was after this, in 
a great measure abandoned to servants, while 
he betook himself to the duties of his new ap- 
pointment. 

' He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
spring, directing his plough, a labour in which 
he excelled ; or with a white sheet, containing 
his seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, 
striding with measured steps along his turned 
up furrows, and scattering the grain in the 
earth. But his farm no longer occupied the 
principal part of his care or his thoughts. It 
was not at Ellisland that he was now in gen- 
eral to be found. Mounted on horseback, this 
high-minded poet was pursuing the defaulters 
of the revenue, among the hills and vales of 
Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over the 



* The poem of The Whistle (Poems, p. 74.) celebrates a 
Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen of Nithsdale, 
where Burns appears as umpire. Mr. Riddell died before 
our Bard* and some elegiac verses to his memory will 
be found, entitled, Sonnet on the death of Robert 
Riddell. From him, and from all the members of his 
family .Burns received not kindness only, but friendship ; 
and the society he met in general at Friar's Carse was cal- 
culated to improve his habits as well as his manners. Mr. 
Fc-rgusson of Cralgdarroch, so well known for his elo- 
quence and social talents, died soon after our poet. Sir 
Robert Laurie, the third person in the drama, 6urvives, 
and has since been engaged in contests of a bloodier nature. 
Long may he Jive to fight the battles of his country! 
(1799.) 



OF BURNS. 

charms of nature, and muttering hia wayward 
fancies as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, in a 
letter to the editor, " when passing through 
Dumfriesshire, on a tour to the South, with 
Dr. Stewart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly, 
near Closeburn, I said to my companion, 'that 
is Burns/ On coming to the inn, the hostler 
told us he would be back in a few hours to 
grant permits ; that where he met with any 
thing seizable he was no better than any 
other gauger; in every thing else, that he was 
perfectly a gentleman. After leaving a note 
to be delivered to him on his return, I pro- 
ceeded to his house, being curious to see his 
Jean, &c. I was much pleased with his uxor 
Sabina qualis, and the poet's modest mansion, 
so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. 
In the evening he suddenly bounced in upon 
us, and said, as he entered, I come, to use the 
words of Shakspeare, stewed in haste. In fact 
he had ridden incredibly fast after receiving 
my note. We fell into conversation directly, 
and soon got into the mare magnum of poetry. 
He told me that he had now gotten a story for 
a Drama, which he was to call Rob Macquech- 
art's Elshon, from a popular story of Robert 
Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, 
when the heel of his boot having loosened in 
his flight, he applied to Robert Macquechan 
to fit it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine 
inches up the King's heel. We were now 

going on at a great rate, when Mr. S 

popped in his head : which put a stop to our 
discourse, which had become very interesting. 
Yet in a little while it was resumed ; and 
such was the force and versatility of the 
bard's genius, that he made the tears run 

down Mr. S 's cheeks, albeit unused 

to the poetic strain. * * * From that 
time we met no more, and, I was grieved 
at the reports of him afterwards. Poor 
Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like 
again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in 
literature, irregular in its motions, which did 
not do good proportioned to the blaze of light 
it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men, who had before met with him in Edin-i 
burgh, paid a visit to him at Ellisland. On 
calling at the house, they were informed that 
he had walked out on the banks of the river ; 
and dismounting from their horses, they pro- 
ceeded in search of him. On a rock that pro- 
jected into the stream, they saw a man em- 
ployed in angling, of a singular appearance. 
He. had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head, 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



a loose great coat fixed round him by a belt, 
from which depended an enormous Highland 
broad-sword. It was Burns. He received 
them with great cordiality, and asked them to 
share his humble dinner — an invitation which 
they accepted. On the table they found boil- 
ed beef, with vegetables, and barley-broth, 
after the manner of Scotland, of which they 
partook heartily. After dinner, the bard told 
them ingenuously that he had no wine to offer 
them, nothing better than Highland whisky, 
a bottle of which Mrs. Burns set on the 
board. He produced at the same time his 
punch-bowl made of Inverary marble ; and, 
mixing the spirit with water and sugar, filled 
their glasses, and invited them to drink.* 
The travellers were in haste, and besides, the 
flavour of the whisky to their suthron palates 
was scarcely tolerable ,• but the generous poet 
offered them his best, and his ardent hospi- 
tality they found it impossible to resist. 
Burns was in his happiest mood, and the 
charms of his conversation were altogether 
fascinating. He ranged over a great variety 
of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
He related the tales of his infancy and of his 
youth; he recited some or the gayest and 
some of the tenderest of his poems ; in the 
wildest of his strains of mirth, he threw in 
some touches of melancholy, and spread 
around him the electric emotions of his power- 
ful mind. The Highland whisky improved 
in its flavour ; the marble bowl was again 
and again emptied and replenished; the 
guests of our poet forgot the flight of time, 
and the dictates of prudence : at the hour of 
midnight they lost their way in returning to 
Dumfries, and could scarcely distinguish it 
when assisted by the morning's dawn.f 

Besides his duties in the excise and his 
social pleasures, other circumstances inter- 
fered with the attention of Burns to his farm. 
He engaged in the formation of a society for 
purchasing and circulating books among the 
farmers of his neighbourhood, of which he 
undertook the management ;| and he occupied 
himself occasionally in composing songs for 
the musical work of Mr. Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. These engagements, 
useful and honourable in themselves, con- 
tributed, no doubt, to the abstraction of 
his thoughts from the business of agricul- 
ture. 

* This bowl was made of the lapis ollaris, the stone of 
I which Inverary-house is built, the mansion of the family 
t .fArgyle. 

t Given from the information of one of the party. 
t See No. LXXXV1II. 



51 



The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of Mrs. Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our 
poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to 
resign his farm to Mr. Miller ; after having 
occupied it three years and a half. His office 
in the excise had originally produced about 
fifty pounds per annum. Having acquitted 
himself to the satisfaction of the board, he had 
been appointed to a new district, the emolu 
ments of which rose to about seventy pounds 
per annum. Hoping to support himself and 
his family on this humble income till promo- 
tion should reach him, he disposed of his 
stock and of his crop on Ellisland by public 
auction, and removed to a small house which 
he had taken in Dumfries, about the end of 
the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess 
in social parties, had abstained from the 
habitual use of strong liquors, and his consti- 
tution had not suffered any permanent injury 
from the irregularities of his conduct. In 
Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so easily 
beset him, continually presented themselves ; 
and his irregularities grew by degrees into 
habits. These temptations unhappily oc- 
curred during his engagements in the business 
of his office, as well as during his hours of 
relaxation ; and though he clearly foresaw 
the consequences of yielding to them, his 
appetites and sensations, which could not 
prevent the dictates of his judgment, finally 
triumphed over the powers of his will. Yet 
this victory was not obtained without many 
obstinate struggles, and at times temperance 
and virtue seemed to have obtained the 
mastery. Besides his engagements in the 
excise, and the society into which they led, 
many circumstances contributed to the melan- 
choly fate of Burns. His great celebrity 
made him an object of interest and curiosity 
to strangers, and few persons of cultivated 
minds passed through Dumfries without at- 
tempting to see our poet, and to enjoy the 
pleasure of his conversation. As he could not 
receive them under his own humble roof, 
these interviews passed at the inns of the 
town,: and often terminated in those ex 
cesses which Burns sometimes provoked, 
and was seldom able to resist. And among 
the inhabitants of Dumfries and its vicin- 
ity, there were never wanting persons to 
share his social pleasures ; to lead or ac 
company him to the tavern ; to partake in 
the wildest sallies of his wit; to witness 
the strength and the degradation of his 
genius. 



52 



Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and of respectability, and in 
their company could impose on himself the 
restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor 
was his muse dormant. In the four years 
which he lived in Dumfries, he produced 
many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does 
not appear that he attempted any poem of 
considerable length. During this time he 
made several excursions into the neighbour- 
ing country, of one of which, through Gallo- 
way, an accountis preserved in a letter of Mr. 
Syme, written soon after ; which, as it gives 
an animated picture of him by a correct 
and masterly hand, we shall present to the 
reader. 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 

Burns thinks so highly of it 



" I got Burns a gray Highland shelty to 
ride on. We dined the first day, 27th July, 
1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton ! a beautiful 
situation on the banks of the Dee. In the 
evening we walked out, and ascended a 
gentle eminence, from which we had as fine a 
view of Alpine scenery as can well be ima- 
gined. A delightful soft evening showed all 
its wilder as well as its grander graces. Im- 
mediately opposite, and within a mile of us, 
we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, 
where dwelt Low, the author of Mary weep no 
more for me.* This was classical ground for 
Burns. He viewed " the' highest hill which 
rises o'er the source of Dee ;" and would have 
staid till " the passing spirit/' had appeared, 
had we not resolved to reach Kenmore that 
night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Gordon 
were sitting down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The 
castle, an old building, stands on a large 
natural moat. In front, the river Ken winds 
for several miles through the most fertile and 
beautiful holm,j till it expands into a lake 
twelve miles long, the banks of which, on the 
south, present a line and soft landscape of 
green knolls, natural wood, and here and 
there a gray rock. On the north, the aspect 
is great, wild, and, I may say, tremendou . 
In short, I can scarcely conceive a scene more 
terribly romantic than the castle of Kenmore, 

* A beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins 



" The moon had climbed the highest hill, 

Which vi ie . o'ci' the Bonxoc of Dee 
.And, from ii" ;, shed 

. light on tower and tree. 

f The level low ground on tlie banks of a river or 
itream. Thi« word 6lu>uld be adopted from the Scotisfc, 
.-, ., indei 'i ought several others of tin .same nature. That 
dialect b singularly copious and exact in the denonura- 

1)0.110 of jiatuid objects. L\ 



that he mecfi* 
tates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, I 
believe he has begun the work. We spent 
three days with Mr. Gordon, whose polished 
hospitality is of an original and endearing 
kind. Mrs. Gordon's lap-dog, Echo, was 
dead. She would have an epitaph for him. 
Several had been made. Burns was asked 
for one. This was setting Hercules to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject: but to 
please the lady he would try. Here is what 
he produced : 



« In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now half yout din of tuneless song 

With Echo silent lies." 



" We left Kenmore, and went to Gate- 
house. I took him the moor-road, where 
savage and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sympathetic with the 
wretchedness of the soil ; it became lowering 
and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the 
lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The 
poet enjoyed the awful scene — he spoke not a 
word but seemed wrapt in meditation. In a 
little while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
in floods upon us. For three hours did the 
wild elements rumble their belly full upon our 
defenceless heads. Oh ! Oh ! 'twas foul. We 
got utterly wet ; and to revenge ourselves 
Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting 
utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair 
of jemmy boots for the journey, which had 
been thoroughly wet, and which had been 
dried in such manner that it was hot possible 
to get them on again. The brawny poet tried 
force, and tore them to shreds. A whiffling 
vexation of this sort is more trying to the 
temper than a serious calamity. We were 
going to Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of the 
Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was 
discomtited at the thought of his ruined boots. 
A sick stomach, and a head-ache, lent their 
aid, and the man of verse was quite accable-. 
1 attempted to reason with him. Mercy on 
us ! how he did fume .with rage ! Nothing 
could reinstate him in temper. I tried various 
expedients, and at last hit on one that suc- 
ceeded. I showed him the house of * * *, 
across the bay of Wigton» Against * *■ *„ 



THE IiIFS 

Ivith whom he was offended, he expectorated 
his spleen, and regained a most agreeable tem- 
per. He was in a most epigrammatic humour 
indeed ! He afterwards fell on humbler 
game. There is one * * * whom 
he does not love. He had a passing blow at 
him. 

« When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

Twas nothing would serve hiru but Satan's own 

crown : 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear 

never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever." 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I carried 
the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his 
fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and what is more, Lord Selkirk carried them 
in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they 
were worth mending, 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
o'clock. I had promised that we should dine 
with one of the first men in our country, J. 
Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild and ob- 
streperous humour and swore he would not 
dine where he should be under the smallest 
restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr-. 
Dalzell to dine with us in the inn, and had a 
very agreeable party. In the evening we set 
out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not ab- 
solutely regained the milkiness of good tem- 
per, and it occurred once or twice to him, as 
he rode along, that St. Mary's Isle was the 
seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was not an 
aristocrat, at least in his sense of the word. 
We arrived about eight o'clock, as the family 
were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's Isle is 
one of the most delightful places that can, in 
my opinion, be formed by the assemblage of 
every soft, but not tame object which con- 
stitutes natural and cultivated beauty. But 
not to dwell on its external graces, let me tell 
you that we found all the ladies of the family 
(all beautiful) at home, and some strangers ; 
and among others, who but Urbani! The 
Italian sung us many Scotish songs, accom- 
panied with instrumental music. The two 
young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We had 
the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked for, 
to have an opportunity of calling on Burns to 
recite Ms ballad to that tune. He did recite 
it ; and such was the effect, that a dead 
silence ensued. It was such a silence as a 
mind of feeling ndrwrally preserves when it is 
touched with that enthusiasm which banishes 
every other thought but the contemplation 
aud indulgence of the sympathy produced. 
Burns's Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a 



OF BURNS. S3 

most beautiful and affecting ballad. The 
fastidious critic may perhaps say, some of the 
sentiments and imagery are of too elevated a 
kind for such a style of composition ; far in- 
stance, " Thou bolt of heaven that passes t 
by ;" and " Ye, mustering thunder, &c. ;" but 
this is a cold-blooded objection, which will be 
said rather than felt. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at 
Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of 
the word, a feast, in which our minds and our 
senses were equally gratified. The poet was 
delighted with his company, and acquitted 
himself to admiration. The lion that had 
raged so violently in the morning, was now as 
mild and gentle as a lamb. Next day we 
returned to Dumfries, and so ends our pere- 
grination. I told you, that in the midst of the 
storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was 
rapt in meditation. What do you think he 
was about? He was charging the English 
army, along with Bruce, at Bannockburn. 
He was engaged in the same manner on our 
ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not 
disturb him. Next day he produced me the 
following address of Bruce to his troops, and 
gave me a copy for Dalzell." 

" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion 
in the excise ; but circumstances occurred 
which retarded their fulfilment, and which, in 
his own mind, destroyed all expectation of 
their being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary 
events which ushered in the revolution of 
France, interested the feelings, and excited 
the hopes of men in every corner of Europe. 
Prejudice and tyranny seemed about to dis- 
appear from among men, and the day-star of 
reason to rise upon a benighted world. In 
the dawn of this beautiful morning, the genius 
of French freedom appeared on our southern 
horizon with the countenance of an angel, but 
speedily assumed the features of a demon, and 
vanished in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a jacobite and a cavalier, 
Burns had shared in the original hopes enter- 
tained of this astonishing revolution, by 
ardent and benevolent minds. The novelty 
and the hazard of the attempt meditated by 
the First, or Constituent Assembly, served 
rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his 
daring temper ; and the unfettered scope pro- 
posed to be given to every kind of talents, was 
doubtless gratifying to the feelings of con- 
scious but indignant genius. Burns foresaw 
not the mighty ruin that was to be the immedfe 



54, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ate consequence of an enterprise, which on its 
commencement, promised so much happiness 
to the human race. And even after the career 
of guilt and of blood commenced, he could not 
immediately, it may be presumed, withdraw 
his partial gaze from a people who had so 
lately breathed the sentiments of universal 
peace and benignity ; or obliterate in his 
bosom the pictures of hope and of happiness 
to which those sentiments had given birth. 
Under these impressions, he did not always 
conduct himself with the circumspection and 
prudence which his dependent situation seem- 
ed to demand. He engaged indeed in no 
popular associations, so common at the time 
of which we speak : but in company he did 
hot conceal his opinions of public measures, 
or of the reforms required in the practice of 
our government ; and sometimes in his social 
and unguarded moments, he uttered them with 
a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. Infor- 
mation of this was given to the Board of 
Excise, with the exaggerations so general in 
such cases. A superior officer in that depart- 
ment was authorised to inquire into his con- 
duct. .Burns defended himself in a letter 
addressed to one of the Board, written with 
great independence of spirit, and with more 
than his accustomed eloquence. The officer 
appointed to inquire into his conduct gave a 
favourable report. His steady friend, Mr. 
Graham of Fintry, interposed his good offices 
in his behalf ; and the imprudent gauger was 
suffered to retain his situation, but given to 
understand that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend on his future behaviour. 

" This circumstance made a deep impression 
on the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his 
misconduct, and represented him as actually 
dismissed from his office ; and this report in- 
duced a gentleman of much respectability to 
propose a subscription in his favour. The 
offer was refused by our poet in a letter of 
great elevation of sentiment, in which he 
gives an account of the whole of this transac- 
tion, and defends himself from the imputation 
of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, and on 
the other, from the charge of having made 
submissions for the sake of his office, un- 
worthy of his character. 



•' The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to sup- 
port. In the poet I have avowed manly and 
independent sentiments, which I hope have 
been found in the man. Reasons of no less 
weight than the support of a wife and child- 
ren, have pointed out my present occupation 



as the only eligible line of life within my 
reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest 
concern, and a thousand times have 1 trem- 
bled at the idea of the degrading epithets that 
malice or misrepresentation may affix to my 
naine. Often in blasting anticipation have I 
listened to some future hackney scribbler, 
with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, 
exultingly asserting that Burns, notwith- 
standing thefanfaronna.de of independence to 
be found in his works, and after having been 
held up to public view, and to public estima- 
tion, as a man of some genius, yet, quite des- 
titute of resources within himself to support 
his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry 
exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his in- 
significant existence in the meanest of pursuits, 
and among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of 
such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a 
poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by 
necessity.; but— I will say it! the sterling of 
his honest worth poverty could not debase, 
and his independent British spirit, oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts accom- 
panied by some additional remarks on the 
same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safety of 
the constitution, the indiscreet expressions of 
a man so powerful as Burns, should have 
attracted notice. The times certainly required 
extraordinary vigilance in those intrusted 
with the administration of the government, and 
to ensure the safety of the constitution was 
doubtless their first duty. Yet generous minds 
will lament that their measures of precaution 
should have robbed the imagination of our 
poet of the last prop on which his hopes of 
independence rested ; and by embittering his 
peace, have aggravated those excesses which 
were soon to conduct him to an untimely 
grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating 
liquors, might lead him into many improper 
and unguarded expressions, there seems no 
reason to doubt of his attachment to our mixed 
form of government. In his common-place 
book, where he could have no temptation to 
disguise, are the following sentiments. — 
" Whatever might be my sentiments of repub- 
lics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever 
abjured the idea. A constitution, which in 
its original principles, experience has proved 
to be every way fitted for our happiness, it 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



55 



would be insanity to abandon for an untried 
visionary theory." In conformity to these 
sentiments, when the pressing nature of pub- 
lic affairs called, in 1795, for a general arming 
of the people, Burns appeared in the ranks of 
the Dumfries volunteers, and employed his 
poetical talents in stimulating their patriot- 
ism ;* and at this season of alarm, he brought 
forward a hymn,f worthy of the Grecian 
muse, when Greece was most conspicuous for 
genius and valour. 

Though by nature of an athletic'form, Burns 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and 
the delicacies that belong to the temperament 
of genius. He was liable, from a very early 
period of life, to that interruption in the pro- 
cess of digestion, which arises from deep and 
anxious thought, and which is sometimes the 
effect and sometimes the cause of depres- 
sion of spirits. Connected with this disorder 
of the stomach, there was a disposition to 
head-ache, affecting more especially the tem- 
ples and eye-balls, and frequently accom- 
panied by violent and irregular movements of 
the heart. Endowed by nature with great 
sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his cor- 
poreal, as well as in his mental system, liable 
to inordinate impressions ; to fever of body as 
well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, 
which strict temperance in diet, regular exer- 
cise, and sound sleep, might have subdued, 
habits of a very different nature strengthened 
and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by 
alcohol in one or other of its various forms, 
the inordinate actions of the circulating sys- 
tem became at length habitual ; the process of 
nutrition was unable to supply the waste, and 
the powers of life began to fail. Upwards of 
a year before his death, there was an evident 
decline in our poet's personal appearance, and 
though his appetite continued unimpaired, he 
was himself sensible that his constitution was 
sinking. In his moments of thought he re- 
flected with the deepest regret on his fatal 
progress, clearly foreseeing the goal towards 
which he was hastening, without the strength 
of mind necessary to stop, or even to slacken 



# See Poem entitled The Dumfries Volunteers. 

f The Song of Death, Poems p. 83. This poem was writ- 
ten in"I791. Itwas printed.in Johnson's Musical Museum. 
the poet had an intention, in the latter part of his life, of 
printing it separately, set to music, but was advised against 
it, or at least discouraged from it. The martial ardour 
which rose so high after^Mfe, on the threatened invasion, 
had not then acquired thetone necessary to give populari- 
ty to this noble poem ; which to the Editor, seems more 
calculated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season 
of real and pressing danger, than any production of mo- 
dern times. 



his course. His temper now became more 
irritable and gloomy; he fled from himself 
into society, often of the lowest kind. And in 
such company, that part of the convivial scene, 
in which wine increases sensibility and excites 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who suffers 
the pollution of inebriation, how shall he es- 
cape other pollution ? But let us refrain from 
the mention of errors over which delicacy and 
humanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- 
ness and forgiveness, except in the gnawings 
of his own remorse. He acknowledged his 
transgressions to the wife of his bosom, pro- 
mised amendment, and again and again re- 
ceived pardon for his offences. But as the 
strength of his body decayed, his resolution 
became feebler, and habit acquired predomi- 
nating strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
the house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
home about three o'clock in a very cold morn- 
ir»g, benumbed and intoxicated. This was 
followed by an attack of rheumatism, which 
confined him about a week. His appetite now 
began to fail ; his hand shook, and his voice 
faltered on any exertion or emotion. His 
pulse became weaker and more rapid, and 
pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and 
feet, deprived him of the enjoyment of refresh- 
ing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, 
and too well aware of his real situation to en- 
tertain hopes of recovery, b« was ever musing 
on the approaching desolation of his family, 
and his spirits sunk into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if 
he could live through the months of spring, the 
succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams 
of the sun infused no vigour into his languid 
frame : the summer wind blew upon him, but 
produced no refreshment. About the latter 
end of June he was advised to go into the 
country, and impatient of medical advice, as 
well as of every species of control, he deter- 
mined for himself to try the effects of bathing 
in the sea. For this purpose he took up his 
residence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten 
miles east of Dumfries, on the shore ot the 
Solway -Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady with 



56 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



whom he had been connected in friendship 
by the sympathies of kindred genius, was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood.* 
Being informed of his arrival, she invited him 
to dinner, and sent her carriage for him to the 
cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to 
walk. — " I was struck," says this lady (in a 
confidential letter to a friend written soon 
after,)_" with his appearance on entering the 
room. The stamp of death was imprinted 
on his features. He seemed already touching 
the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, 
* Well, Madam, have you any commands for 
the other world V I replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful case which of us should be there 
soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a bad state 
of health.) He looked in my face with an air 
of great kindness, and expressed his concern 
at seeing me look so ill, with his accustomed 
sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, 
and he complained of having entirely lost the 
tone of his stomach. We had a long and 
serious conversation about his present situa- 
tion, and the approaching termination of all 
his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death 
without any of the ostentation of philosophy, 
but with firmness as well as feeling, as an 
event likely to happen very soon ; and which 
gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so young and unprotected, and his 
wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly 
expectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- 
tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his eldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had 
received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family 
seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the 
more perhaps from the reflection that he had 
not done them all the justice he was so well 
qualified to do. Passing from this subject, 
he showed great concern about the care of his 
literary fame, and particularly the publication 
of his posthumous works. He said he was 
well aware that his death would occasion 
some noise, and that every scrap of his 
writing would be revived 'against him to the 
injury of his future reputation; that letters 
and verses written with unguarded and im- 
proper freedom, and which he ; earnestly 
Wished to have buried in oblivion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment would re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
ton gued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of 

• For a character of Has lady, see letter, No.CXXIX. 



envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he enter- 
tained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound; and many in- 
different poetical pieces, which he feared 
would now, with all their imperfections on 
their head, be thrust upon the world. On 
this account he deeply regretted having de- 
ferred to put his papers in a state of arrange- 
ment, as he was now quite incapable of the 
exertion." — The lady goes on to mention many 
other topics of a private nature on which he 
spoke — " The conversation," she adds, " was 
kept up with great evenness and animation 
on his side. I had seldom seen his mind 
greater or more collected. There was fre- 
quently a considerable degree of vivacity io 
his sallies, and they would probably have had 
a greater share, had not the concern and 
dejection I could not disguise, damped the 
spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling 
to indulge. 

** We parted about sunset on the evening of 
that day (the 5th July, 1796;) the next day 
1 saw him again, and we parted to meet no 
more 1° 

At first Burns imagined bathing in tho 
sea had been of benefit to him : the pains in 
his limbs were relieved; but this was im- 
mediately followed by a new attack of fever. 
When brought back to his own house in Dum- 
fries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer 
able to stand upright. At this time a tremor 
pervaded his frame : his tongue was parched, 
and his mind sunk into delirium, when not 
roused by conversation. On the second and 
third day the fever increased, and his 
strength diminished. On the fourth, the 
sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius, 
were terminated ; and a life was closed in 
which virtue and passion had been at per- 
petual variance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had interested 
themselves in his character, and especially on 
the inhabitants of the town and county in 
which he had spent the latter years of his 
life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had 
been, they had not deprived him of the re- 
spect and regard ent^g^ned for the extra- 

* The particulars respecting the illness and death of j 
Eurns were obligingly furnished by Dr. Maxwell, tho I 
p hysician who attended him. 



THE LIFE 

ordinary powers of his genius, and the gener- 
ous qualities of his heart. The Gentlemen- 
Volunteers of Dumfries determined to bury 
their illustrious associate with military hon- 
ours, and every preparation was made to 
render this last service solemn and impres- 
sive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, 
and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque 
Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, 
offered their assistance on this occasion ; the 
principal inhabitants of the town and neigh- 
bourhood determined to walk in the funeral 
procession ; and a vast concourse of persons 
assembled, some of them from a considerable 
distance, to witness the obsequies of the 
Scotish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of 
July, the remains of Burns were removed 
from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A 
party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the military duty in the chureh yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of tbe procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, 
on which were placed the hat and sword of 
their friend and fellow-soldier; the numerous 
body of attendants ranged themselves in the 
rear ; while the Fencible regiments of infantry 
and cavalry lined the streets from the Town- 
Hall to the burial ground in the Southern 
church-yard, a distance of more than half a 
mile. The whole procession moved forward 
to that sublime and affecting strain of music, 
the Dead March in Saul ; and three volleys 
fired over his grave marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle was 
in a high degree grand and solemn, and ac- 
corded with the general sentiments of sym- 
pathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, 
on the morning of the day of her husband's 
funeral, Mrs. Burns w^s undergoing the pains 
of labour ; and that during the solemn service 
we have just been describing, the posthumous 
son of our poet was born. This infant boy, 
who received the name of Maxwell, was not 
destined to a long life. He has already be- 
come an inhabitant of the same grave with 
his celebrated father. The four other children 
of our poet, all sons, (the eldest at that time 
about ten years of age) yet survive, and give 
every promise of prudence and virtue that can 
be expected from their tender years. They 
remain under the^^re of their affectionate 
mother in Dumfries, and are enjoying the 
means of education which the excellent 
schools of that town afford; the teachers of 
which, in their conduct to the children of 



of Btrawrs. 57 

Burns, do themselves great honour. On this 
occasion the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to 
be particularly mentioned, himself a poet, as 
well as a man of science.* 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde« 
pendence of his spirit and the exemplar^ 
prudence of his wife, had preserved him from 
debt. He had received from his poems a 
clear profit of about nine hundred pounds 
Of this sum, the part expended on his library 
(which was far from extensive) and in the 
humble furniture of his house, remained ; and 
obligations were found for two hundred 
pounds advanced by him to the assistance of 
those to whom he was united by the ties ot 
blood, and still more by those of esteem and 
affection. When it is considered, that his 
expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various 
journeys, could not be inconsiderable ; that 
his agricultural undertaking was unsuccess- 
ful ; that his income from the excise was for 
some time as low as fifty, and never rose to 
above seventy pounds a-year ; that his family 
was large, and his spirit liberal — no one will 
be surprised that his circumstances were so 
poor, or that, as his health decayed, his proud 
and feeling heart sunk under the seoet con- 
sciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions 
of absolute want. Yet poverty never bent the 
spirit of Burns to any pecuniary meanness. 
Neither chicanery nor sordidness ever ap- 
peared in his conduct. He carried his disre- 
gard of money to a blameable excess, Even 
in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily 
to the world, and received with a jealous re- 
luctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
His printed poems had procured him great 
celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In 
the year 1795, the Editor of a London news- 
paper, high in its character for literature, and 
independence of sentiment, made a proposal 
to him that he should furnish them, once a 
week, with an article for their poetical de- 
partment, and receive from them a recom- 
pence of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
offer which the pride of genius disdained to 
accept. Yet he had for several years 
furnished, and was <at that time furnishing, 
the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful 
lyrics, without fee or reward, $ and was ob- 
stinately refusing all recompense for his 
assistance to the greater work of Mr. Thom- 
son, which the justice and generosity of that 
gentleman was pressing upon him. 

* Author of " St. Guerdon's Well," a poem ; and 
of « A Tribute to the Memory of Burns." 



58 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family pressed 
heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of 
death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at 
times, with something approaching to his 
wonted gayety.— " What business," said he 
to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the 
utmost zeal, ' has a physician to waste his 
time on me ? I am a poor pigeon, not worth 
plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers enough 
upon me to carry me to my grave." And 
when his reason was lost in delirium his ideas 
ran in the same melancholy train ; the horrors 
of a jail were continually present to his 
troubled imagination and produced the most 
affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his death 
he had been incapable of the duties of his 
office, Burns dreaded that his salary should 
be reduced one half as is usual in such cases. 
His full emoluments were, however, continued 
to him by the kindness of Mr. Stobbie, a 
young expectant in the Excise, who perform- 
ed the duties of his office without fee or 
reward ; and Mr. Graham of Fintry, hearing 
of his illness, though unacquainted with its 
dangerous nature, made an offer of his assist- 
ance towards procuring him the means of pre- 
serving his health. Whatever might be the 
faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the 
number. — Amongst his manuscripts, various 
proofs are found of the sense he entertained 
of Mr. Graham's friendship, which delicacy 
towards that gentleman has induced us to 
suppress ; and on this last occasion there is 
no doubt that his heart overflowed towards 
him, though he had no longer the power of 
expressing his feelings.* 

On the death of Burns the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a sub- 
scription for the support of his wife and family ; 
and Mr. Miller Mr. M'Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, 
Mr. Syme, and Mr. Cunningham, gentlemen of 
the first respectability, became trustees for the 
application of the money to its proper objects. 
The subscription was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly 
London and Liverpool. By this means a sum 
was raised amounting to seven hundred 
pounds ; and thus the widow and children 
were rescued from immediate distress, and 
the most melancholy of the forebodings of 
Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this 
sum, though equal to their present support, is 

# The letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to above, is dated 
mi tin- 18th of .inly, and probably arrived on the 15th. 
iofni became dellrioiu on the 17th or 18th, and died 
on I Ik- 'Jl.ii, 



insufficient to secure them from future penury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends on 
the favourable reception of these volumes 
from the public at large, in the promoting of 
which the candour and humanity of the read- 
er may induce him to lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agility as well as strength. 
His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. 
His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and 
intelligence. His face was well formed ; and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and 
expressive. His mode of dressing, which was 
often slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend 
in his shoulders, characteristic of his original 
profession, disguised in some degree the 
natural symmetry and elegance of his form. 
The external appearance of Burns was most 
strikingly indicative of the character of his 
mind. On a first view, his physiognomy 
had a certain air of coarseness, mingled, how- 
ever, with an expression of deep penetration, 
and of calm thoughtfulness, approaching to 
melancholy.- There appeared in his first 
manner and address, perfect ease and self- 
possession, but a stern and almost supercili- 
ous elevation, not, indeed, incompatible with 
openness and affability, which, however, be- 
spoke a mind conscious of superior talents. 
Strangers that supposed themselves approach- 
ing an Ayrshire peasant who could- make 
rhymes, and to whom their notice was an 
honour, found themselves speedily overawed 
by the presence of a man who bore himself 
with dignity, and who possessed a singular 
power of correcting forwardness and of repell- 
ing intrusion. But though jealous of the re- 
spect due to himself, Burns never enforced it 
where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, 
though inaccessible to the approaches of 
pride, he was open to every advance of kind- 
ness and of benevolence. His dark and 
haughty countenance easily relaxed into a 
look of good-will, of pity, or of tenderness ; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
other in his mind, assumed with equal ease 
the expression of the broadest humour, of the 
most extravagant mirth, of the deepest mel- 
ancholy, or of the most sublime emotion. The 
tones of his voice, happily corresponded with 
the expression of his features, and with the 
feelings of his mind. When to these endow- 
ments are added a rapt^nnd distinct appre- 
hension, a most powerful understanding, and 
a happy command of language — of strength 
as well as brilliancy of expression — we shall 
be able to account for the extraordinary at- 



THE LIPS OF BURN?, 



59 



tractions of his conversation — for the sorcery 
which in his social parties he seemed to exert 
on all around him. In the company of women 
this sorcery was more especially apparent. 
Their presence charmed the fiend of melan- 
choly in his bosom, and awoke his happiest 
feelings ; it excited the powers of his fancy, 
as well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, 
by restraining the vehemence and the exuber- 
ance of his language, at times gave to his 
manners the impression of taste, and even of 
elegance, which in the company of men they 
seldom possessed. This influence was doubt- 
less reciprocal. A Scotisb Lady, accustomed 
to the best society, declared with charac- 
teristic naivete, that no man's conversation 
ever carried her so completely off her feet as 
that of Burns ; and an English Lady, fami- 
liarly acquainted with several of the most 
distinguished characters of the present times, 
assured the Editor, that in the happiest of his 
social hours, there was a charm about Burns 
which she had never seen equalled. This 
caarm arose not more from the power than 
the versatility of his genius. No languor 
could be felt in the society of a man who 
passed at pleasure from grave to gay, from 
the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the sim- 
ple to the sublime ; who wielded all his 
faculties with equal strength and ease, 
and never failed to impress the offspring 
of his fancy with the stamp of his understand- 
ing. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes 
fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of the 
proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of 
the insolence of wealth, and prone to avenge, 
even on its innocent possessor, the partiality 
of fortune. By nature kind, brave, sincere, 
and in a singular degree compassionate, he 
was on the other hand proud, irascible, and 
vindictive. His virtues and his failings had 
their origin in the extraordinary sensibility of 
his mind, and equally partook of the chilis and 
glows of sentiment. His friendships were 
liable to interruption from jealousy or disgust, 
and his enmities died aAvay under the influence 
of pity or self-accusation. . His understanding 
was equal to the other powers of his mind, 
and his deliberate opinions were singularly 
candid and just ; but, like other men of great 
and irregular genius, the opinions which he 
delivered in convention were often the off- 
spring of temporary feelings, and widely 
different from the calm decisions of his judg- 
ment. This was not merely true respecting 
the characters of others, out in regard to some 



of the most important points of human specu- 
lation. 



On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his own failings ; he predicted their 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was 
never long absent from his mind ; yet his 
passions carried him down the stream of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw 
directly in his course. The fatal defect in his 
character lay in the comparative weakness of 
his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, 
which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it 
to be denominated rational ; which is the 
parent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; 
which, by regulating and combining human 
exertions, may be said to have effected all 
that is great in the works of man, in litera- 
ture, in science, or on the face of nature. The 
occupations of a poet are not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the mind, 
or to weaken that sensibility which require? 
perpetual control, since it gives birth to the 
vehemence of passion as well as to the higher 
powers of imagination. Unfortunately the 
favourite occupations of genius are calculated 
to increase all its peculiarities : to nourish 
that lofty pride which disdains the littleness 
of prudence, and the restrictions of order: 
and, by indulgence, to increase that sensi- 
bility which, in the present form of our exis- 
tence, is scarcely compatible with peace or 
happiness, even when accompanied with the 
choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns,* and who has contem- 
plated and explained the system of animated 
nature, that no sentient being with mental 
powers greatly superior to those of men, could 
possibly live and be happy in this world — " If 
such a being really existed," continues he, 
" his misery would be extreme. With senses 
more delicate and refined; with perceptions 
more acute and penetrating ; with a taste so 
exquisite that the objects around him would 
by no means gratify it; obliged to feed on 
nourishment too gross for his frame; he must 
be born only to be miserable ; and the con- 
tinuation .of his existence would be utterly 
impossible. Even in our present condition, 
the sameness and the insipidity of objects 
and pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and the 
infinite sources of excruciating pain, are sup- 
ported with great difficulty by cultivated and 

* SmcIIie.— See his" Philosophy of Natural History.", 



GO 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, con- 
tinue the same objects and situation, and no 
man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensa- 
tion as well as all our other powers, are 
adapted to the scene of our existence ; 
that they are limited in mercy, as well as in 
wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; 
they were probably founded on sad ex- 
perience. The being he supposes, " with 
senses more delicate and refined, with per- 
ceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be 
found in real life. He is of the temperament 
of genius, and perhaps a poet. Is there, then, 
no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? Are 
there no means by which the happiness of one 
so constituted by nature may be consulted? 
Perhaps it will be found, that regular and 
constant occupation, irksome though it may at 
first be, is the true remedy. Occupation in 
which the powers of the understanding are 
exercised, will diminish the force of external 
impressions, and keep the imagination under 
restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should 
be followed in his education and in his des- 
tination in life, is a maxim which has been 
often repeated, but which cannot be admitted 
without many restrictions. It may be gener- 
ally true when applied to weak minds, which 
being capable of little, must be encouraged 
and strengthened in the feeble impulses by 
which that little is produced. But where in- 
dulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with a 
liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim 
ought frequently to be the rule of conduct. 
In minds of a higher order, the object oi in- 
struction and of discipline is very often to re- 
strain, rather than to impel ; to curb the im- 
pulses of imagination, so that the passions 
also may be kept under control.* 

* Qmnctilian discusses the important question, whether 
the bent of the individual's genius should be followed in 
his education Can secundum sui quisque ingenii docendus 
sit naturam,) chiefly, indeed, with a reference to the 
orator, but In a. -way that admits of very general applica- 
tion. His conclusions coincide very much with those of 
l!ie text. " An vcro Isocrates cum dc Ephoroatque Thco- 
c judicaret, ut altcrifrcnis, altcri calcaribus opus 
• rut ; aut in illo lentiorc tarditatem, aut in illo 
pone prsdpiti coocitarionetri stdJttvAtldutt docendo existi- 
tnavit? cum altcrum alterius natura miscendum arbi- 
(r.iKtur. ImbccilliH tamen ingeniis 6ane sic obsequen- 
•lum sit, ut tantum in id quo yocat natura, ducantur. Ita 
onira, quod whim pOMI)l\t, melius efficient. 

Inst. Orator, lib. ii. 9, 



Hence the advantages, even in a moral 
point of view, of studies of a severer nature, 
which while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power oi 
the mind, which, like all our other faculties, 
is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of which, virtue, happiness, and 
honourable fame, are wholly dependent. 
Hence also the advantage of regular and con- 
stant application, which aids the voluntary 
power by the production of habits so neces- 
sary to the support of order and virtue, and so 
difficult to be formed in the temperament of 
genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regu- 
lated, may pursue his course with confidence 
in almost any of the various walks of life 
which choice or accident shall open to him ; 
and, provided he employs the talents he has 
cultivated, may hope for such imperfect 
happiness, and such limited success, as are 
reasonably to be expected from human exer- 
tions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or never ob- 
tained by the excellence of a single faculty of 
mind. Experience teaches us, that it has 
been acquired by those only who have pos- 
sessed the comprehension and the energy of 
general talents, and who have regulated their 
application, in the line which choice, or per- 
haps accident, may have determined, by the 
dictates of their judgment. Imagination is 
supposed, and with justice, to be the leading 
faculty of the poet. But what poet has stood 
the test of time by the force of this single 
faculty ? Who does not see that Homer and 
Shakspeare excelled the rest of their species 
in understanding as well as in imagination ; 
that they were pre-eminent in the highest 
species of knowledge — the knowledge of the 
nature and character of man ? On the other 
hand, the talent of ratiocination is more es- 
pecially requisite to the orator ; but no man 
ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by 
the highest excellence in this single talent. 
Who does not perceive that Demosthenes and 
Cicero were not more happy in their ad 
dresses to the reason, than in their appeals 
to the passions ? They knew, that to excite, 
to agitate, and to delight, are among the most 
potent arts of persuasion^ and they enforced 
their impression on the^understanding, by 
their command of all the sympathies of the 
heart. These observations might be extended 
to other walks of life. He who has the 
faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has the 



THE LIFS OF BURNS. 



61 



faculties which, duly governed, and different- 
ly directed, might lead to pre-eminence in 
other, and, as far as respects himself, perhaps 
in happier destinations. The talents neces- 
sary to the construction of an Iliad, under 
different discipline and application, might 
have led armies to victory, or kingdoms to 
prosperity ; might have wielded die thunder 
of eloquence, or discovered and enlarged the 
sciences that constitute the power and improve 
the condition of our species.* Such talents 
are, indeed, rare among the productions of 
nature, and occasions of bringing them into 
full exertion are rarer still. But safe and 
salutary occupations may be found for men of 
genius in every direction, while the useful 
and ornamental arts remain to be cultivated, 
while the sciences remain to be studied and to 
be extended, and principles of science to be 
applied to the correction and improvement of 
art. In the temperament of sensibility, which 
is in truth the temperament of general talents, 
the principal object of discipline and instruc- 

' * The reader must not suppose it is contended that the 
same individual could have excelled in all these directions. 
A certain degree of instruction and practice is necessary 
to excellence in every one, and life is too short to admit of 
one man, however great his talents, acquiring this in all 
of them. It is only asserted, that the same talents, differ- 
ently applied, might have succeeded in any one, though 
perhaps, not equally well in each. And, after all, this 
position requires certain limitations, which the reader's 
candour and judgment will supply. In supposing that a 
groat poet might have made a great orator, the physical 
qualities necesary to oratory are pre-supposed. In sup- 
posing that a great orator might have made a great poet, 
it is a necessary condition, that he should have devoted 
himself to poetry, and that he should have acquired a pro- 
ficiency in metrical numbers, which by patience and atten- 
tion may be acquired, though the want of it has embarrass- 
ed and chilled many of the first efforts of true poetical 
genius. In supposing that Homer might have led armies 
to victory, more indeed is assumed than the physical 
qualities of a general. To these must be added that hardi- 
hood of mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty and 
danger, which great poets and orators are found some- 
times, but not always, to possess. The nature of the in- 
stitutions of Greece and Rome produced more instances of 
single individuals who excelled in various departments of 
active and speculative life, than occur in modern Europe, 
where the employments of men are more subdivided. 
Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity excelled in 
literature and in oratory. That they had the minds of 
great poets also, will be admitted, when the qualities are 
justly appreciated which are necessary to excite, combine, 
and command the active energies of a great body of men, 
to rouse that enthusiasm which sustain? fatigue, hunger, 
and the inclemencies of the elements, and which triumphs 
cer the fear of death, the most powerful instinct of our 
nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in favour of 
the close connexion between the poet and the orator. 
Estcnimfinitimus oratori poeta, numeris adstrictior paulo, 
verborum autem liccntia libertor, $c. De Oratore, Lib. i. 



tion is, as has already been mentioned, to 
strengthen the self-command; and this may 
be promoted by the direction of the studies, 
more effectually perhaps than has been gen- 
erally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of 
some importance. It has been too much the 
custom to consider the possession of poetical 
talents as excluding the possibility of appli- 
cation to the severer branches of study, and 
as in some degree incapacitating the possessor 
from attaining those habits, and from bestow- 
ing that attention, which are necessary to 
success in the details of business, and in the 
engagements of active life. It has been com- 
mon for persons conscious of such talents, to 
look with a sort of disdain on other kinds of 
intellectual excellence, and to consider them- 
selves as in some degree absolved from those 
rules of prudence by which humbler minds 
are restricted. They are too much disposed 

c. 16. See also Lib. Hi. c. 7. — It is true the example of 
Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. His attempts 
in verse, which are praised by Plutarch, do not seem to 
have met the approbation of Juvenal, or of some others. 
Cicero probably did not take sufficient time to learn the 
art of the poet ; but that he had the afflatus necessary to 
poetical excellence, may be abundantly proved from his 
compositions in prose. On the other hand, nothing is 
more clear, than that, in the character of a great poet, all 
the mental qualities of an orator are included. It is said 
by Quinctilian, of Homer, Omnibus eloquently partibus 
exemplum et orium dedit. Lib. i. 47. The study of Home* 
is therefore recommended to the orator, as of the first im- 
portance. Of the two sublime poets in our own language, 
who are hardly inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, 
a similar recommendation may be given. It is scarcely ne- 
cessary to" mention how much an acquaintance with them 
has availed the great orator who is now the pride and or- 
nament of the English bar, a character that may be 
appealed to with singular propriety, when we are contend- 
ing for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of the 
talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, painting, 
and war, will be admitted by some, who will be inclined to 
dispute the extension of the position to science or natural 
knowledge. On this occasion I may ;quote the following 
observations of Sir William Jones, whose own example 
will however far exceed in weight the authority of his 
precepts. " Abul Ola had so flourishing a reputation, 
that several persons of uncommon genius were ambitious 
of learning the art of poetry from so able an instructor. 
His most illustrious scholars were Feleki and Khakani, 
who were no less eminent for their Persian compositions, 
than for their skill in every branch of pure and mixed 
mathematics, and particularly in astronomy; a striking 
proof that a sublime poet may become master of any kind 
of learning which he chooses to profess ; since a fine im- 
agination, a lively wit, an easy and copious style, cannot 
possibly obstruct the acquisition of any science whatever ; 
but must necessarily assist him in his studies, and shorten 
his labour." Sir William Jones's Works, vol. ii. p. 3x7. 



62 THE LIFE 

to abandon themselves to their own sensations, 
and to suffer life to pass away without regu- 
lar exertion or settled purpose. 

But though n.en of genius are generally- 
prone to indolence, with them indolence and 
unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendors of imagina- 
tion may indeed at times irradiate the gloom 
which inactivity produces ; but such visions, 
though bright, are transient, and serve to cast 
the realities of life into deeper shade. In 
bestowing great talents, Nature seems very 
generally to have imposed on the possessor 
the necessity of exertion, if he would escape 
wretchedness. Better for him than sloth, 
toils the most painful, or adventures the most 
hazardous. Happier to him than idleness, 
were the condition of the peasant, earning 
with incessant labour his scanty food ; or that 
of the sailor, though hanging on the yard-arm, 
and wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrat- 
ed by the biography of men of genius of 
every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of the poets. Of this last de- 
scription of men, few seem to have enjoyed 
the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
the lot of humanity, those excepted who have 
cultivated poetry as an elegant amusement in 
the hours of relaxation from other occupations, 
or the small number who have engaged with 
success in the greater or more arduous at- 
tempts of the muse, in which all the faculties 
of the mind have been fully and permanently 
employed. Even taste, virtue, and compara- 
tive independence, do not seem capable of 
bestowing on men of genius, peace and tran- 
quillity, without such occupation as may give 
regular and healthful exercise to the faculties 
of body and mind. The amiable Shenstone 
has left us the records of his imprudence, of 
his indolence, and of his unhappiness, amidst 
the shades of the Leasowes ;* and the vir- 
tues, the learning, and the genius of Gray, 
equal to the loftiest attempts of the epic muse, 
Failed to procure him in the academic bowers 
of Cambridge, that tranquillity and that respect 
which less fastidiousness of taste, and greater 
constancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self- 
command, and of exertion, because their in- 
dolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to 



■■■< BOO lii.% Ix-tterc, which, as a display of the effects of 
P .rural idlcnOHj arc highly instructive. 



op Bumsrs. 

unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and to 
errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. 
This interesting subject deserves a particular 
investigation ; but we must content ourselves 
with one or two cursory remarks. Relief is 
sometimes sought from the melancholy of in- 
dolence in practices, which for a time soothe 
and gratify the sensations, but which in the 
end involve the sufferer in darker gloom. To 
command the external circumstances by 
which happiness is affected, is not in human 
power ; but there are various substances in 
nature which operate on the system of the 
nerves, so as to give a fictitious gayety to the 
ideas of imagination, and to alter the effect ot 
the external impressions which we receive. 
Opium is chiefly employed for this purpose by 
the disciples of Mahomet and the inhabitants 
of Asia ; but alcohol, the principle of intoxi- 
cation in vinous and spirituous liquors, is pre- 
ferred in Europe, and is universally used in 
the Christian world.* Under the various 
wounds to which indolent sensibility is 
exposed, and under the gloomy apprehen- 
sions respecting futurity to which it is so 
often a prey, how strong is the temptation 
to have recourse to an antidote by which 
the pain of n these wounds is suspended, by 
which the heart is exhiiirated, visions of hap- 
piness are excited in the mind, and the forms 
of external nature clothed with r.ew beauty 1 

" Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the ligh tcn'd soul, 

* There are a great number of other substances, which 
in ay be considered under this point of view. — Tobacco, tea, 
and coffee, are of the number. These substances essen- 
tially differ from each other in their qualities; and an in- 
quiry into the particular effects of each on the health, mo- 
rals, and happiness of those who use them, would he 
curious and useful. The effects of wine and of opium on 
the temperament of sensibility, the Editor intended to 
have discussed in this place at some length j but he found 
the subject too extensive and too professional to be intro- 
duced with propriety. The difficulty of abandoning any 
of these narcotics (if we may so term them,) when in- 
clination is strengthened by habit, is well known. John- 
son, in his distresses, had experienced the cheering bu 
treacherous influence of wine, and by a powerful effort, 
abandoned it He was obliged, however, to use tea as a 
substitute, and thie was the solace to which he constantly 
had recourse under his habitual mebncholy. The praises 
of wine form many of the most beautiful lyrics of the 
poets of Greece and Home, and of modern Europe. 
Whether opium, which produces visions still more ecstat- 
ic, has been the themeofthe eastern poems, I do not know. 

Wine is drunk in small quantities at a time, in company, 
where,/or a time, it promotes harmony and social affec- 
tion. Opium is swallowed by the Asiatics in full dozes at 
once and the inebriate retires to the solitary indulgcnc.7 
of his delirious imaginations. Hence, the wine drinkei 
appears in a supeiior light to the imbiber of opium, a dis- 
tinction which he owes more to the form than to the 
quality of his liquor. 



And sangu 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ill 



And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
Ar.d what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone j a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head— — 



Morning comes ; your cares return 
With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; so may the throbbing head: 
But such a dim delirium ; such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soui, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, 
When, baited round Cithaeron's cruel sides, 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament 
of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, 
with a degree of truth and energy which 
nothing but experience could have dictated. 
There are, indeed, some individuals of this 
temperament on whom wine produces no 
cheering influence. On some, even in very 
moderate quantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark 
and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still 
larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. Such 
men are happily exempted from a temptation, 
to which experience teaches us the finest dis- 
positions often yield, and the influence of 
which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
humiliating truth, that the most powerful 
minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual use 
of wine, because it is apt to steal on them 
insensibly ; and because the temptation to ex- 
cess usually presents itself to them in their 
social hours, when they are alive only to 
warm and generous emotions, and when pru- 
dence and moderation are often contemned as 
selfishness and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its effects are, physically and morally, 
in an especial manner injurious. In propor- 
tion to its stimulating influence on the s>stem 
(on which the pleasurable sensations depend,) 
is the debility that ensues ; a debility that de- 
stroys digestion, and terminates in habitual 
fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. 
As the strength of the body decays, the voli- 
tion fails ; in proportion as the sensations are 
soothed and gratified, the sensibility in- 
creases ; and morbid sensibility is the parent 
of indolence, because, while it impairs the 
regulating power of the mind, it exaggerates 



63 

all the obstacles to exertion. Activity, per- 
severance, and self-command, become more 
and more difficult, and the great purposes of 
utility, patriotism, or of honourable ambition, 
which had occupied the imagination, die 
away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble ef- 
forts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well 
as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we 
owe to the living, not to allow our admiration 
of great genius or even our pity for its unhap- 
py destiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. 
But there are sentiments of respect, and even 
of tenderness, with which this duty should be 
performed ; there is an awful sanctity which 
invests the mansions of the dead ; and let 
those who moralise over the graves of their 
contemporaries, reflect with humility on their 
own errors, nor forget how soon they may 
themselves require the candour and the sym- 
pathy they are called upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the follow- 
ing article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, 
from which it was copied into the Edinburgh 
newspapers, and into various other periodical 
publications. It is from the elegant pen of a 
lady already alluded to in the course of these 
memoirs,* whose exertions for the family of 
our bard, in the circles of literature and 
fashion in which she moves, have done her so 
much honour. 

" The attention of the public seems to be 
much occupied at present with the loss it has 
recently sustained in the death of the Caledo- 
nian poet, Robert Burns ; a loss calculated to 
be severely felt throughout the literary world, 
as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of 
private friendship. It was not, therefore, pro- 
bable, that such an event should be long unat- 
tended with the accustomed profusion of pos- 
thumous anecdotes and memoirs which are 
usually circulated immediately after the 
death of every rare and celebrated person- 
age : I had, however, conceived no inten- 
tion of appropriating to myself the privilege 
of criticising Burns's writings and character, 
or of anticipating on the province of a biogra- 
pher. 

" Conscious/indeed, of my own inability to 
do justice to such a subject, I should have 
continued wholly silent, had misrepresention 

* See pp. 55 & 50. 



64 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



and calumny been less industrious; but a 
regard'to truth, no less than affection for the 
memory of a friend, must now justify my 
offering to the public a few at least of those 
observations which an intimate acquaintance 
with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I 
have had of observing equally his happy 
qualities and his failings for several years 
past, have enabled me to communicate. 

" It will actually be an injustice done to 
Burns's character, not only by future genera- 
tions and foreign countries, but even by his 
native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his 
contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical 
talents only: for the fact is, even allowing his 
great and original genius its due tribute of 
admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all who 
have had the advantage of being personally 
acquainted with him) was actually not his 
■forte. Many others, perhaps, may have as- 
cended to prouder heights in the region of 
Parnassus, but none certainly ever outshone 
Burns in the charms— the sorcery, I would 
almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the 
spontaneous eloquence of social argument, or 
the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repartee ; 
nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with 
a larger portion of the ' vivida vis animi.' His 
personal endowments were perfectly corre- 
spondent to the qualifications of his mind ; his 
form was manly ; his action, energy itself; 
devoid in a great measure perhaps of those 
graces, of that polish, acquired only in the re- 
finement of societies where in early life he 
could have no opportunities of mixing ; but 
where such was the irresistible power of at- 
traction that encircled him, though his ap- 
pearance and manners were always peculiar, 
ho never failed to delight and to excel. His 
figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier 
destination and employments. It seemed 
rather moulded by nature for the rough exer- 
cises of agriculture, than the gentler cultiva- 
tion of the Belles Lettres. His features were 
stamped with the hardy character of indepen- 
dence, aud the firmness of conscious, though 
not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated ex- 
pressions of countenance were almost peculiar 
to himself; the rapid lightnings of his eye 

were always the harbingers of some flash of 
genius, whether they darted the fiery glances 

'.>f insulted and indignant superiority, or 
beamed with the impassioned sentiment of 
fervent and impetuous affections. His voice 
alone could improve upon the magic of his 
eye : sonorous, replete with the finest modu- 
lations, it alternately caj|»vated the ear with 

the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity 



of nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of 
enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of 
satire was; I am almost at a loss whether to 
say, his forte or his foible ; for though nature 
had endowed him with a portion of the most 
pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, 
he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of per- 
sonal, and sometimes unfounded animosities. 
It was not always that sportiveness of humour, 
that ' unwary pleasantry/ which Sterne has 
depicted with touches so conciliatory, but 
the darts, of ridicule w r ere frequently directed 
as the caprice of the instant suggested, or as 
the altercations of parties and of persons hap- 
pened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit 
into interest or aversion. This, however,was 
not invariably the case ; his wit (which is no 
unusual matter indeed) had always the start 
of his judgment, and would lead him to the 
indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but 
often unaccompanied with the least desire to 
wound. The suppression of an arch and 
full-pointed bon-mot, from the dread of offend- 
ing its object, the sage of Zurich very proper- 
ly classes as a virtue only to be sought for in 
the Calendar of Saints ; if so, Burns must not 
be too severely dealt with for being rather 
deficient in it. He paid for his mischievous 
wit as dearly as any one could do. ' 'Twas 
no extravagant arithmetic,' to say of him as 
was said of Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes 
he got a hundred enemies:' but much allow- 
ance will be made by a candid mind for the 
splenetic warmth of a spirit whom * distress 
had spited with the world/ and which, un- 
bounded in its intellectual sallies and pur- 
suits, continually experienced the curbs im- 
posed by the waywardness of his fortune. 
The vivacity of his wishes and temper was 
indeed checked by almost habitual disap- 
pointments, which sat heavy on a heart that 
acknowledged the ruling passion of indepen- 
dence, without having'ever been placed be- 
yond the grasp of penury. His soul was 
never languid or inactive, and his genius was 
extinguished only with the last spark of re- 
treating life. His passions rendered him, 
according as they disclosed themselves in 
affection or antipathy, an object of enthusias- 
tic attachment, or of decided emnity ; for he 
possessed none of that negative insipidity of 
character, whose love might be regarded with 
indifference, or whose resentment could be 
considered with contempt. In this, it should 
seem, the temper of his associates took the 
tincture from his own ; for he acknowledged 
in the universe but two classes of objects, 
those of adoration the most fervent, or of 
aversion the most uncontrollable ; and it has 
been frequently a reproach to him, that, un- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



65 



susceptible of indifference, often hating where 
he ought only to have despised, he alternately 
opened his heart and poured forth the treas- 
ures of bis understanding to such as were 
incapable of appreciating the homage ; and 
elevated to the privileges of an adversary 
some who were unqualified in all respects for 
the honour of a contest so distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson 
professed to ' love a good hater,'— a tempera- 
ment that would have singularly adapted him 
to cherish a prepossession in favour of our 
bard, who perhaps fell but little short even of 
the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long 
as the disposition to ill-will continued ; but 
the warmth of his passions was fortunately 
corrected by their versatility. He was seldom, 
indeed never, implacable in his resentments, 
and sometimes, it has been alleged, not in- 
violably faithful in his engagements of friend- 
ship. Much, indeed, has been said about his 
inconstancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to 
believe, that they originated less in a levity of 
sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity 
of feeling, which rendered him prompt to 
take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the 
traces of neglect, scorn, or unkindness, took 
their measure of asperity from the overflow- 
ings of the opposite sentiment which preceded 
them, and which seldom failed to regain its 
ascendency in his bosom on the return of 
calmer reflection. He was candid and manly 
in the avowal of his errors, and his avowal was 
a reparation. His native^er^ never forsaking 
him for a moment, the value of a frank ac- 
knowledgment was enhanced tenfold to- 
wards a generous mind, from its never being 
attended with servility. His mind, organized 
only for the stronger and more acute opera- 
tions of the passions, was impracticable to the 
efforts of superciliousness that would have 
depressed it into humility, and equally supe- 
rior to the encroachments of venal suggestions 
that might have led him into the mazes of hy- 
pocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- 
ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed 
extravagantly in that way himself; where he 
paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from 
him was always an honest tribute from the 
warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has 
been sometimes represented by those who, it 
should seem, had a view to depreciate, though 
they could not hope wholly to obscure that 



native brilliancy, which the powers of this 
extraordinary man had invariably bestowed 
on every thiug that came from his lips or pen, 
that the history of the Ayrshire plough-boy 
was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the 
purposes of obtaining the interests of the 
great, and enhancing the merits of what re- 
quired no foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, 
Tarn o' Shunter, and The Mountain Daisy, 
besides a number of later productions, where 
the maturity of his genius will be readily 
traced, and which will be given to the public 
as soon as his friends have collected and 
arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- 
selves ; and had they fallen from a hand more 
dignified in the ranks of society than that of a 
peasant, they had, perhaps, bestowed as un- 
usual a grace there, as even in the humbler 
shade of rustic inspiration from whence they 
really sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns's educa- 
tion, and to the laborious, though honourable 
station of rural industry, in which his parent- 
age, enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of 
the south of Scotland can give testimony. 
His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
flow guides the ploughshare of his forefathers 
in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ;* and 
our poet's eldest son (a lad of nine years of 
age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheritor of his 
father's talents as well as indigence,) has 
been destined by his family to the humble em- 
ployment of the loom.t 

w That Burns had received no classical 
education, and was acquainted with the 
Greek and Roman authors only through the 
medium of translations, is a fact of which all 
who w r ere in the habits of conversing with 
him might readily be convinced. I have, in- 
deed, seldom observed him to be at a loss in 
conversation, unless where the dead lan- 
guages and their writers have been the sub- 
jects of discussion. When I have pressc' 
him to tell me, why he never applied himself 
to acquire the Latin, in particular, a language 
which his happy memory would have so 
soon enabled him to be master of, he used 
only to reply with a smile, that he had 
already learned all the Latin he desired to 
know, and that was omnia vincit amor ; a sen- 
tence, that from his writings and most fa- 
vourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem 

* This very respectable and very superior man is now 
removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents lands on the estate 
of Closeburn, and is a tenant of the venerable Dr. Mon- 
teith, (1800.) E. 

f This destination is now altered. (1800.) E. 
K 



66 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



that he was most thoroughly versed in : but I 
really believe his classic erudition extended 
little, if any, further. 

" The penchant Burns had uniformly ac- 
knowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer ob- 
jects of nature'screation, has been the rallying 
point from whence the attacks of his censors 
have been uniformly directed : and to these, 
it must be confessed, ho showed himself no 
stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alter- 
nate happiness of description, the frolic spirit 
of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in which 
beauty always taught him to pour forth his 
own. But who would wish to reprove the 
feelings he has consecrated with such lively 
touches of nature ? And where is the rugged 
moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill 
the genial current of the soul,' as to regret 
that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 

" I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities even of a man 
of genius, though I believe it is as certain that 
genius never was free from irregularities, as 
that their absolution may, in a great measure, 
be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident 
that the world had continued very stationary 
in its intellectual acquirements, had it never 
given birth to any but men of plain sense. 
Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to the 
decorums of the world, have been so rarely 
seen to move hand in hand with genius, that 
some have gone as far as to say, though there 
I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even 
incompatible ; besides the frailties that cast 
their shade over the splendor of superior 
merit, are more conspicuously glaring than 
where they are the attendants of mere medio- 
crity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed 
to see the dust: the pebble may be soiled, 
and we never regard it. The eccentric in- 
tuitions of genius too often yield the soul to 
the wild effervescence of desires, always un- 
bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to 
the repose of others as fatal to its own. No 
wonder, then, if virtue herself be sometimes 
lost in the blaze of kindling animation, or that 
the calm monitions of reason are not in- 
variably found sufficient to fetter an imagina- 
tion, which scorns the narrow limits and re- 
strictions that would chain it to the level of 
ordinary minds. The child of nature, the 
child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid 
precepts of philosophy, too often unable to 
control the passions which proved a source 
of frequent errors and misfortunes to him 



Burns made his own artless apology in lan- 
guage more impressive than all the argumen- 
tatory vindications in the world could do, in 
one of his own poems, where he delineates 
the gradual expansion of his mind to the 
lessons of the ' tutelary muse/ who concludes 
an address to her pupil, almost unique for 
simplicity and beautiful poetry, with these 
lines : 



" I saw thy pulse's madd'n'mg play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from keaven,"* 



" I have already transgressed beyond the 
bounds I had proposed to myself, on first 
committing this sketch to paper, which com- 
prehends what at least 1 have been led to 
deem the leading features of Burns's mind 
and character : a literary critique I do not 
aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these 
pages I have been able to delineate any of 
those strong traits, that distinguished him, of 
those talents which raised him from the 
plough, where he passed the bleak morning 
of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy 
with the wild field-flowers that sprang around 
his cottage, to that enviable eminence of lit- 
erary fame, where Scotland will long cherish 
his memory with delight and gratitude ; and 
proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky 
a genius was ripened, without care or cul- 
ture, that would have done honour to climes 
more favourable to those luxuriances — that 
warmth of colouring and fancy in which he 
so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed 
in the public prints, ever since the idea of 
sending this sketch to some one of them 
was formed, I find private animosities have 
not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet 
exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, how- 
ever, that honest fame will be permanently 
affixed to Burns's character, which 1 think it 
wiU be found he has merited by the candid 
and impartial among his countrymen. And 
where a recollection of the imprudence that 
sullied his brighter qualifications interpose, 
let the imperfection of all human excellence 
be remembered at the same time, leaving 
those inconsistencies, which alternately ex- 
alted his nature into the seraph, and sunk it 
again into the man, to the tribunal which 

• Vide the Vision— Duan 2d. 



mlone can investigate 
human heart — 



THE LIFE 

labyrinths of the 



OF BURNS. 



67 



* Where they alike in trembling hope repose, 
■—The bosom of his father and his God.* 

Gray's Elegy. 

1 Annandale, Aug. 7, 1796." 



After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some inquiry should be made into his literary 
merits. It will not, however, be necessary to 
enter very minutely into this investigation. 
If fiction be, as some suppose, the soul of 
poetry, no one had ever less pretensions to 
the name of poet than Burns. Though he has 
displayed great powers of imagination, yet the 
subjects on which he has written, are seldom, 
if ever, imaginary ; his poems, as well as his 
letters, may be considered as the effusions of 
his sensibility, aud the transcript of his own 
musings on the real incidents of his humble 
life. If we add, that they also contain most 
happy delineations of the characters, manners, 
and scenery, that presented themselves to his 
observation, we shall include almost all the 
subjects of his muse. His writings may, there- 
fore, be regarded as affording a great part of 
the data on which our account of his personal 
character has been founded ; and most of the 
observations we have applied to the man, are 
applicable, with little variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his origi- 
nal station in life, was not more evident on 
his form and manners, than on his poetical 
productions. The incidents which form the 
subjects of his poems, though some of them 
highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical 
imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant 
who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness 
of his condition, or to throw into shade the 
circumstances attending it, which more feeble 
or more artificial minds would have endeav- 
oured to conceal. The same rudeness and 
inattention appears in the formation of his 
rhymes, which are frequently incorrect, while 
the measure in which many of the poems are 
written, has little of the pomp or harmony of 
modern versification, and is indeed to an Eng- 
lish ear, strange and uncouth. The greater 
part of his earlier poems are written in the 
dialect of his country, which is obscure, if not 
unintelligible to Englishmen; and which, 
though it still adheres more or less to the 
speech of almost every Scotchman, all the 
polite and the ambitious are now endeavour- 
ing to banish from their tongues as well as 
their writings. The use of it in composition 
naturally therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity 



in the mind. These singularities are increased 
by the character of the poet, who delights to 
express himself with a simplicity that ap- 
proaches to nakedness, and with an unmeas- 
ured energy that often alarms delicacy, and 
sometimes offends taste. Hence, in approach- 
ing him, the first impression is perhaps repul- 
sive : there is an air of coarseness about him, 
which is difficultly reconciled with our estab- 
lished notions of poetical excellence. 

As the reader however becomes better ac 
quainted with the poet, the effects of his 
peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his 
poems, even on the lowest subjects, expres- 
sions of sentiment, and delineations of man- 
ners, which are highly interesting. The 
scenery he describes is evidently taken from 
real life ; the characters he introduces, and 
the incidents he relates have the impression 
of nature and truth. His humour, though 
wild and unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, 
and is sometimes heightened in its effects by 
the introduction of emotions of tenderness, 
with which genuine humour so happily unites. 
Nor is this the extent of his power. The 
reader, as he examines farther, discovers that 
the poet is not confiued to the descriptive, the 
humorous, or the pathetic; he is found, as 
occasion offers, to rise with ease into the 
terrible and the sublime. Every where he 
appears devoid of artifice, performing what he 
attempts with little apparent effort ; and im- 
pressing on the offspring of his fancy the stamp 
of Ms understanding. The reader, capable of 
forming a just estimate of poetical talents, 
discovers in these circumstances marks of un- 
common genius, and is willing to investigate 
more minutely its nature and its claims to 
originality. This last point we shall examine 
first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a 
classical education, or of any degree of ac- 
quaintance with the Greek or Roman Writers 
in their original dress has appeared in the 
history of his life. He acquired indeed some 
knowledge of the French language, but it 
does not appear that he was ever much con- 
versant in French literature, nor is there any 
evidence of his having derived any of his poeti- 
cal stores from that source. With the Eng- 
lish classics he became well acquainted in the 
course of his life, and the effects of this ac- 
quaintance are observable in his latter pro- 
ductions ; but the character and style of his 
poetry were formed very early, and the model 
which he followed, in as far as he can be said 
to have had one, is to be sought for in the 
works of the poets who have written in tho 



68 



Scotish dialect— in the works of such of them 
more especially, as are familiar to the peas- 
antry of Scotland. Some observations on 
these may form a proper introduction to a 
more particular examination of the poetry of 
Burns. The studies of the Editor in this di- 
rection are indeed very recent and very im- 
perfect. It would have been imprudent for 
him to have entered on this subject at all, but 
for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, 
and to whom the reader must ascribe what- 
ever is of any value in the following imperfect 
sketch of literary compositions in the Scotish 
idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
which does not seem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thirteenth century, the 
language of the two British nations, if at all 
different, differed only in dialect, the Gaelic 
in the one, like the Welsh and Armoric in the 
other, being confined to the mountainous dis- 
tricts.* The English under the Edwards, 
and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, 
spoke the same language. We may observe 
also, that in Scotland the history of poetry 
ascends to a period nearly as remote as in 
England. Barbour, and Blind Harry, James 
the First, Dunbar, Douglas and Lindsay, who 
lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth 
centuries, were coeval with the fathers of 
poetry in England ; and in the opinion of Mr. 
Wharton, not inferior to them in genius or in 
composition. Though the language of the 
two countries gradually deviated from each 
other during this period, yet the difference 
on the whole was not considerable ; not per- 
haps greater than between the different dia- 
lects of the different parts of England in our 
own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the 
language of Scotland was in a flourishing con- 
dition, wanting only writers in prose equal to 
those in verse. Two circumstances, propitious 
on the whole, operated to prevent this. The 
first was the passion of the Scots for composi- 
tion in Latin ; and the second, the accession 
of James the Sixth to the English throne. It 
may easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had 
devoted his admirable talents, even in part, to 
the cultivation of his native tongue, as was 
lone by the revivers of letters In Italy, he 
would have loft compositions in that language 
which might have incited other men of genius 
to have followed his example, t and given 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 

duration to the language itself. The union ol 



* I [iftforical Essay on Scotish Song,/?. 20, by M. Ritson, 
•) e. /;. The Authors of the Dclicia 1'oelarwn Scotorum, 



V 



the two crowns in the person of James, over- 
threw all reasonable expectation of this kind. 
That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer suffer himself to be addressed 
in the rude dialect in which the Scotish clergy 
had so often insulted his dignity. He en- 
couraged Latin or English only, both of which 
he prided himself on writing with purity 
though he himself never could acquire the 
English pronunciation, but spoke with a 
Scotish idiom and intonation to the last. — 
Scotsmen of talents declined writing in their 
native language, which they knew was not 
acceptable to their learned and pedantic mon- 
arch ; and at a time when national prejudice 
and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they 
disdained to study the niceties of the English 
tongue, though ol so much easier acquisition 
than a dead language. Loid Stirling and 
Drummond of Hawthornden, the only Scots- 
men who wrote poetry in those times, were 
exceptions. They studied the language of 
England and composed in it with precision 
and elegance. They were however the last 
of their countrymen who deserved to be con- 
sidered as poets in that century. The muses 
of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not 
again raise their voices for a period of eighty 
years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this 
extreme depression among a people compara- 
tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious? 
Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of the 
covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house of 
Stuart after their restoration to the throne ? 
Doubtless these causes operated, but they 
seem unequal to account for the effect. In 
England, similar distractions and oppression 
took place, yet poetry flourished there in a 
remarkable degree. During this period, Cow- 
ley, and Waller, and Dry den sung, and Mil- 
ton raised his strain of unparalled grandeur. 
To the causes already mentioned, another 
must be added, in accounting for the torpor 
of Scotish literature — the want of a proper 
vehicle for men of genius to employ. The 
civil wars had frightened away the Latin 
Muses, and no standard had been established 
of the Scotish tongue, which was deviating 
still farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 
1715. The nations being finally incorporated, 
it was clearly seen that their tongues must in 
the end incorporate also ; or rather indeed that 
the Scotish language must degenerate into a 



THE LIFE OP BURNS, 



69 



provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who 
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, 
and imitated their beauties, in the same man- 
ner as they studied the classics of Greece and 
Rome. They had admirable models of com- 
position lately presented to them by the writ- 
ers of the reign of Queen Anne ; particularly 
in the periodical papers published by Steele, 
Addison, and their associated friends, which 
circulated widely through Scotland, and 
diffused every where a taste for purity of 
style and sentiment, and for critical disquisi- 
tion. At length, the Scotish writers succeed- 
ed in English composition, and a union was 
formed of the literary talents, as well as of 
the legislatures of the two nations. On this 
occasion the poets took the lead. While 
Henry Home,* Dr. Wallace, and their learned 
associates, were only laying in their intellec- 
tual stores, and studying to clear themselves 
of their Scotish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and 
Hamilton of Bangour had made their appear- 
ance before the public, and been enrolled on 
the list of English poets. The writers in 
prose followed a numerous and powerful 
band, and poured their ample stores into the 
general stream of British literature. Scotland 
possessed her four universities before the ac- 
cession of James to the English throne. Im- 
mediately before the union, she acquired her 
parochial schools. These establishments 
combining happily together, made the ele- 
ments of knowledge of easy acquisition, and 
presented a direct path, by which the ardent 
student might be carried along into the reces- 
ses of science or learning. As civil broils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually 
died away, a wider field was opened to 
literary ambition, and the influence of the 
Scotish institutions for instruction, on the 
productions of the press, became more and 
more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced effects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which 
have not hitherto been suspected, and which, 
though less splendid in their nature, are not 
however to be regarded as trivial, whether 
we consider the happiness or the morals of 
the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 

• Lord Kaimcs. 



sessed a peculiar ana an interesting species 
of music, which being banished from the 
plains by the successive invasions of the 
Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved 
with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland 
and in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. 
The Irish, the Scotish, and the Welsh music, 
differ indeed from each other, but the differ- 
ence may be considered as in dialect only, and 
probably produced by the influence of time, 
and like the different dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the Scot- 
ish music must be more immediately of a High 
land origin, and the Lowland tunes, though 
now of a character somewhat distinct, must 
have descended from the mountains in remote 
ages. Whatever credit may be given to conjec- 
tures, evidently involved in great uncertainty, 
there can be no doubt that the Scotish peasan- 
try have been long in possession of a number 
of songs and ballads composed in their native 
dialect, and sung to their native music. The 
subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and in 
the succession of time varied probably as the 
condition of society varied. During the se- 
paration and the hostility of the two nations? 
these songs and ballads, as far as our imper- 
fect documents, enable us to judge, were 
chiefly warlike ; such as the Huntis of Che- 
viot, and the Battle of Harlaw. After the 
union of the two crowns, when a certain de- 
gree of peace and of tranquillity took place, 
the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer 
accents. " In the want of real evidence res- 
pecting the history of our songs," says Mr. 
Ramsay cf Ochtertyre, " recourse may be 
had to conjecture. One would be disposed to 
think, that the mcst beautiful of the Scotish 
tunes were clothed with new words after the 
union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the 
borders, who had formerly been warriors from 
choice, and husbandmen from necessity, either 
quitted the country, or were transformed into 
real shepherds, easy in their circumstances, 
and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of 
that spirit of chivalry for which they are cele- 
brated by Froissart, remained, sufficient to 
inspire elevation of sentiment and gallantry 
towards the fair sex. The familiarity and 
kindness which had long subsisted between 
the gentry and the peasantry, could not all a 
once be obliterated, and this connexion tended 
to sweeten rural life. In this state of inno- 
cence, ease and tranquillity of mind, the love 
of poetry and music would still maintain its 
ground, though it would naturally assume a 
form congenial to the more peaceful state of 
society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales 
used once to rouse the borderers like (Le 



70 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the 
legislature (in 1579,) classed with rogues and 
vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples influenced the Scotish 
parliament, but contended in vain with her 
rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, 
probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some 
of its tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
to give a new turn to the taste of their coun- 
trymen. They would see that the events and 
pursuits which chequer private life were the 
proper subjects for popular poetry. Love, 
which had formerly held a divided sway with 
glory and ambition, became now the master 
passion of the soul. To portray in lively and 
delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the 
hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the 
love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, affords 
ample scope to the rural poet. Love-songs of 
which Tibullus himself would not have been 
ashamed, might be composed by an uneduca- 
ted rustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or 
if in these songs, the character of the rustic be 
sometimes assumed, the truth of character, 
and the language of nature, are preserved. 
With unaffected simplicity and tenderness, 
topics are urged, most likely to soften the 
heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain 
a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a mel- 
ancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, 
and dispels the deep and settled gloom which 
characterizes the sweetest of the Highland 
luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs 
all plaintive ; many of them are lively and 
humorous, and some appear to us coarse and 
indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manners of an energetic 
and sequestered people in their hours of mirth 
and festivity, though in their portraits some 
objects are brought into open view, which 
more fastidious painters would have thrown 
into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded 
a love-song or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the works of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but treas- 
ured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned 
nor patronised by the great, these rustic bards 
lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange 
fatality, their story, and even their very names 
have been forgotten.* When proper models 
for pastoral songs were produced, there would 

* In the Fcpys Collodion, there area few Scotish songs 
of the last ccutury, but the name* of the authors are not 
preserved. 



be no want of imitators. To succeed in this 
species of composition, soundness of under- 
standing, and sensibility of heart were more 
requisite than flights of imagination or pomp 
of numbers. Great changes have certainly 
taken place in Scotish song-writing, though 
we cannot trace the steps of this change ; and 
few of the pieces admired in Queen Ma-y's 
time are now to be discovered in modern col- 
lections. It is possible, though not probable, 
that the music may have remained nearly the 
same, though the words to the tunes were en- 
tirely new-modelled."* 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot however, be presumed, that the state 
of ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ram- 
say, took place among the Scotish peasantry 
immediately on the union of the crowns, or 
indeed during the greater part of the seven- 
teenth century. The Scotish nation, through 
all its ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil 
wars, and the religious persecutions which 
succeeded each other in that disastrous 
period ; it was not till after the revolution in 
1688, and the subsequent establishment of 
their beloved form of church government, that 
the peasantry of the Lowlands enjoyed com- 
parative repose ; and it is since that period, 
that a great number of the most admired Scot- 
ish songs have been produced, though the 
tunes to which they are sung, are in general 
of much greater antiquity. It is not unreason- 
able to suppose that the peace and security 
derived from the Revolution and the Union, 
produced a favourable change on the rustic 
poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be 
doubted, that the institution of parish- schools 
in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruc- 
tion was diffused universally among the peas- 
antry, contributed to this happy effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
Scotish Theocritus. He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glan- 
gonar, a stream which descends into the 
Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are slill 
shown to the inquiring traveller.! He was 
the son of a peasant, and probably received 
such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre lo " 
the Editor, Sept, 11, 1799. — In the Bee, vol. ii. is a com- 
munication to Mr. Ramsay, under the signature of J. Run- 
cole,, which enters into this subject somewhat more at 
large. In that paper he gives his reasons for questioning 
the antiquity of many of the most celebrated Scotch 
songs. 

| See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 185. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



71 



and the poverty of his parents admitted.* 
Ramsay made his appearance in Edinburgh 
in the beginning of the present century, in the 
humble character of an apprentice to a bar- 
ber, or peruke-maker ; he was then fourteen 
or fifteen years of age. By degrees he ac- 
quired notice for his social disposition, and 
nis talent for the composition of verses in the 
Scotish idiom ; and, changing his profession 
for that of a bookseller, he became intimate 
with many of the literary, as well as of the 
gay and fashionable characters of his time.f 
Having published a volume of poems of his 
own in 1721, which was favourably received, 
he undertook to make a collection of ancient 
Scotish poems, under the title of the Ever- 
Green, and was afterwards encouraged to 
present to the world a collection of Scotish 
songs, " From what sources he procured 
them," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
" whether from tradition or manuscript, is 
uncertain. As in the Ever-Green, he made 
some rash attempts to improve on the originals 
of his ancient poems, he probably used still 
greater freedom with the songs and ballads. 
The truth cannot, however, be known on this 
point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by 
him, more ancient than the present century, 
shall be produced ; or access be obtained to 
his own papers, if they are still in existence. 
To several tunes which either wanted words, 
or had words that were improper or imperfect, 
he, or his friends, adapted verses worthy of 
the melodies they accompanied, worthy in- 
deed of the golden age. These verses were 
perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet justly 
admired by persons of taste, who regarded 
them as the genuine offspring of the pastoral 
muse. In some respects Ramsay had advan- 
tages not possessed by poets writing in the 
Scotish dialect in our days. Songs in the 
dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire could 
never be popular, because these dialects have 
never been spoken by persons of fashion. 
But till the middle of the present century, 

* The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a workman in 
the lead»mines of the Earl of Hopeton, at Lead-hiils. The 
workmen in those mines at present are of a very superior 
character to miners in general. They have only six hours 
of labour in the day, and have time for reading. They 
have a common library, supported by contribution, con- 
taining several thousand volumes. When this was in- 
stituted I have not learned. These miners are said to be 
of a very sober and moral character : Alian Ramsay 
when very young, is supposed to have been a washer of ore 
in these mines. 

t " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club 
of small wits, who, about 1719, published a very poor mis- 
cellany, to which Dr. Young, the author of the Night 
Thoughts prefixed a copy of verses."— Extract of a letter 
from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre to the Editor. 



every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, 
spoke a truly Doric language. It is true the 
English moralists and poets were hy this time 
read by every person of condition, and con- 
sidered as the standards for polite composi 
tion. But, as national prejudices were still 
strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the 
fair, continued to speak their native dialect, 
and that with an elegance and poignancy, 
of which Scotsmen of the present day can have 
no just notion. I am old enough to have con- 
versed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar 
and a man of fashion, who survived all the 
members of the Union Parliament, in which 
he had a seat. His pronunciation and 
phraseology differed as much from the com- 
mon dialect, as the language of St. James's 
from that of Thames-street. Had we retained 
a court and parliament of our own, the 
tongues of the two sister-kingdoms would 
indeed have differed like the Castilian and 
Portuguese ; but each would have had its 
own classics, not in a single branch, but in 
the whole circle of literature. 

'* Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them 
attempted to write poetry in his manner. 
Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender son- 
nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their 
mistresses, and, transforming themselves into 
impassioned shepherds, caught the language 
of the characters they assumed. Thus, about 
the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Auchi- 
names, wrote the modernsong of Tweed Side,* 
which has been so much admired. In 1743, 
Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who 
both spoke and wrote English elegantly, com- 
posed, in the character of a love-sick swain, 
a beautiful song, beginning, My sheep I ne- 
glected, 1 lost my sheep-hook, on the marriage 
of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald 
Crawford. And about twelve years after- 
wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the 
ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of the 
Forest ,t and supposed to allude to the battle 
of Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, 
it is a sweet, and though in some parts alle- 
gorical, a natural expression of national sor- 
row. The more modern words to the same 
tune, beginning, / have seen the smiling of for- 
tune beguiling, were written long before by 
Mrs. Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who 
outlived all the first groupe of literati of the 

* Beginning, " What beauties does Flora disclose 1" 
f Beginning, '" I have heard a lilting at our ewe«-milk- 
ing." 



72 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



present century, all of whom were very fond 
ofher. I was delighted with her company, 
though, when I saw her, she was very old. 
Much did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scotish 
songs produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of 
Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of 
William and Margaret ; and the song entitled 
The Birks of Endermay, by Mallet ; the love- 
song, beginning, For ever, Fortune, unit thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of 
Thomson ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, 
The Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. 
On the revival of letters in Scotland, subse- 
quent to the Union, a very general taste seems 
to have prevailed for the national songs and 
music. " For many years," says Mr. Ramsay, 
" the singing of songs was the great de- 
light of the higher and middle order of the 
people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though 
a taste for Italian music has interfered with 
this amusement, it is still very prevalent. 
Between forty and fifty years ago, the common 
people were not only exceedingly fond of 
songs and ballads, but of metrical history. 
Often have I, in my cheerful morn of youth, 
listened to them with delight, when reading 
or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce 
against the Southrons. Lord Haileswas wont 
to call Blind Harry their Bible, he being their 
great favourite next the Scriptures. When, 
therefore, one in the vale of life, felt the first 
emotions of genius, he wanted not models sui 
generis. But though the seeds of poetry were 
scattered with a plentiful hand among the 
Scotish peasantry, the product was probably 
like that of pears and apples — of a thousand 
that spring up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or 
more are passable and useful ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allan Ramsay and 
Burns are wildings of this last description. 
They had the example of the elder Scotish 
poets ; they were not without the aid of the 
best English writers; and what was of still 
more importance, they were no strangers 
to the book of nature, and to the book of 
God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scotish 
poems, under the name of The Ever-Green, 
his collection of Scotish songs, and his own 
poems, the principal of which is the Gentle 
Shepherd, have been universally read among 
the peasantry of his country, and have in 



some degree superseded the adventures ot 
Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour 
and Blind Harry. Bums was well acquainted 
with all these. He had also before him the 
poems of Fergusson in the Scotish dialect, 
which have been produced in our own times, 
and of which it will be necessary to give a 
short account. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had it 
in their power to procure him a liberal educa- 
tion, a circumstance, however, which in Scot- 
land implies no very high rank in society. 
From a well written and apparently authentic 
account of his life,* we learn that he spent 
six years at the schools of Edinburgh and 
Dundee, and several years at the universities 
of Edinburgh and St. Andrews. It appears 
that he was at one time destined for the Scot- 
ish chureh; but, as he advanced towards 
manhood, he renounced that intention, and at 
Edinburgh entered the office of a writer to the 
signet, a title which designates a separate and 
higher order of Scotish attorneys. Fergusson 
had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous 
heart, and talents for society of the most at- 
tractive kind. To such a man no situation 
could be more dangerous than that in which 
he was placed. The excesses into which he 
was led impaired his feeble constitution, and 
he sunk under them in the month of October, 
1774, in his 23d or 24th year. Burns was not 
acquainted with the poems of this youthful 
genius when he himself began to write 
poetry ; and when he first saw them he had 
renounced the muses. But while he resided 
in the town of Irvine, meeting with Fergus- 
son's Scotish Poenis, he informs us that he 
" strung his lyre anew with emulating vig- 
our."! Touched by the sympathy originat- 
ing in kindred genius, and in the forebodings 
of similar fortune, Burns regarded Fergusson 
with a partial and an affectionate admiration. 
Over his grave he erected a monument, as has 
already been mentioned ; and his poems lie 
has, in several instances, made the subjects of 
his imitation. 

From this account of the Scotish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see that they are chiefly hu- 
morous or pathetic ; and under one or other of 
these descriptions most of his own poems will 
class. Let us compare him with his predeces- 
sors under each of these points of view, and 

* Intlic Supplement to the "Encyclopaedia Britannic a." 
Seo also, " Campbell's Introduction to the History of 
"i'oitry in Scotland," p. 288. 

t See p. 14. 



close our examination with a few general 
observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot- 
land has produced, comparatively speaking, 
few writers who have excelled in humour. 
But this observation is true only when applied 
to those who have continued to reside in their 
own country, and have confined themselves 
to composition in pure English ; and in these 
circumstances it admits of an easy explana- 
tion. The Scotish poets, who have written 
in the dialect of Scotland, have been at all 
times remarkable for dwelling on subjects of 
humour, in which indeed many of them have 
excelled. It would be easy to show, that the 
dialect of Scotland having become provincial, 
is now scarcely suited to the more elevated 
kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the 
poem of Christis Kirk of the Grene was written 
by James the First of Scotland,* this accom- 
plished monarch, who had received an Eng- 
lish education under the direction of Henry 
the Fourth, and who bore arms under his 
gallant successor, gave the model on which 
the greater part of the humorous productions 
of the rustic muse of Scotland has been 
formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was re- 
printed by Ramsay somewhat modernized in 
the orthography, and two cantos were added 
by him, in which he attempts to carry on the 
design. Hence the poem of King James is 
usually printed in Ramsay's works. The 
royal bard describes, in the first canto, a 
rustic dance, and afterwards a contention in 
archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates 
the restoration of concord, and the renewal 
of the rural sports, with the humours of a 
country wedding. Though each of the poets 
describes the manners of his respective age, 
yet in the whole piece there is a very sufficient 
uniformity ; a striking proof of the identity 
of character in the Scotish peasantry at the 
two periods, distant from each other three 
hundred years. It is an honourable distinc- 
tion to this body of men, that their character 
and manners, very little embellished, have 
been found to be susceptible of an amusing 
and interesting species of poetry ; and it must 
appear not a little curious, that the single 
nation of modern Europe, which possesses an 
original rural poetry, should have received 

* Notwithstanding the evidence produced on this sub- 
ject by Mr. Tytler, the Editor acknowledges his being 
somewhat of a sceptic on this point. Sir David Dal- 
rymple inclines to the opinion that it was written by his 
successor, James the Fifth. There are difficulties attend- 
ing this supposition also. But on the subject of Scotish 
Antiquities, the Editor is an incompetent judge. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 73 

the model, followed by their rustic bards , from 



the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
the happiest of his productions. His chie* 
excellence, indeed, lay in the description 01 
rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
he did not possess any very high powers either 
of imagination or of understanding. He was 
well acquainted with the peasantry of Scot- 
j land, their lives and opinions. The subject 
was in a great measure new ; his talents were 
equal to the subject ; and he has shown that 
it may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. 
In his Gentle Shepherd the characters are 
delineations from nature, the descriptive parts 
are in the genuine style of beautiful sim- 
plicity, the passions and affections of rural 
life are finely portrayed, and the heart is 
pleasingly interested in the happiness that is 
bestowed on innocence and virtue. Through- 
out the whole there is an air of reality which 
the most careless reader cannot but perceive ; 
and in fact no poem ever perhaps acquired so 
high a reputation, in which truth received so 
little embellishment from the imagination. 
In his pastoral songs, and in his rural tales, 
Ramsay appears to less advantage indeed, 
but still with considerable attraction. The 
story of the Monk and the Miller's Wife, 
though somewhat licentious, may rank with 
the happiest productions of Prior or La Fon- 
taine. But when he attempts subjects from 
higher life, and aims at pure English com- 
position, he is feeble and uninteresting, and 
seldom even reaches mediocrity.* Neither 
are his familiar epistles and elegies in the 
Scotish dialect entitled to much approbation. 
Though Fergusson had higher powers of ima- 
gination than Ramsay, his genius was not of 
the highest order ; nor did his learning, which 
was ; considerable, improve his genius. His 
poems written in pure English, in which he 
often follows classical models, though superior 
to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise 
above mediocrity; but in those composed ie 
the Scotish dialect he is often *very successful. 
He was in general, however, less happy than 
Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As he 
spent the greater part of his life in Edinburgh, 
and wrote for his amusement in the intervals 
of business or dissipation, his Scotish poems 
are chiefly founded on the incidents of a town 
life, which, though they are susceptible of 
humour, do not admit of those delineations of 



* See ■« The Morning Interview, &c. 



74 



THE I.IFE OF BURNS. 



scenery and manners, which vivify the rural 
poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably 
amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town-eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so de- 
nominate them, are however faithful to nature, 
ind often distinguished by a very happy vein 
of humour. His poems entitled, The Daft 
Days, the King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leith 
Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he 
i mitated Chrislis Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay 
had done before him. His Address to the Tron- 
kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burns has scarcely excelled. In ap- 
preciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to 
be recollected, that his poems are the careless 
effusions of an irregular though amiable young 
man, who wrote for the periodical papers of 
the day, and who died in early youth. Had 
his life been prolonged under happier circum- 
stances of fortune, he would probably have 
risen to much higher reputation. He might 
have excelled in rural poetry ; for though his 
professed pastorals on the established Sicilian 
model, are stale and uninteresting, The Farm- 
er's Ingle,* which may be considered as a 
Scotish pastoral, is the happiest of all his 
productions, and certainly was the archetype of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and 
more especially Burns, have shown that the 
character and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, 
or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. 



The humour of Burns is of a richer vein 
than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of 
whom, as he himself informs us, he had 
" frequently in his eye, but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
imitation."! His descriptive powers, whether 
the objects on which they are employed be 
comic or serious, animate or inanimate, are of 
the highest order. A superiority of this kind 
is essential to every species of poetical excel- 
lence. In one of his earlier poems, his plan 
seems to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment 
on the lower classes of society, by showing 
that their superiors are neither much better 
nor happier than themselves; and this he 
chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue 
between two dogs. He introduces this dia- 
logue by an account of the persons and char- 
acters of the speakers. The first, whom he 
has named Ceesar, is a dog of condition : 

" His locked, lettcr'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar." 



Tnc farmer's fire-side. 



f See Appendix. 



I High-bred though he is, he is however fall of 
condescension : 

« At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho* e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stones an' hillocks wi' him. 

The other, Luath, is a" ploughman's collie, but 
a cur of a good heart and a sound understand- 
ing. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 

Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 

His breast was white, his towsie back 

"VVeel clad wi' coat o' glossy black. 

His gawcic tail, wi' upward curl. 

Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl." 

Never were twa dogs 60 exquisitely deli- 
neated. Their gambols before they sit down 
to moralize, are described with an equal de* 
gree of happiness ; and through the whole 
dialogue, the character, as well as the differ- 
ent condition of the two speakers, is kept in 
view. The speech of Luath, in which he en- 
umerates the comforts of the poor, gives the 
following account of their merriment on the 
first day of the year : 

<: That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid-will 
The can tie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralized on 
human affairs since the days of ./Esop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as well 
from his superior sagacity, as from his being 
more than any other, the friend and associate 
of man. The dogs of Burns, excepting in 
their talent for moralizing, are downright 
dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, or the 
Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in the shape 
of brutes It is this circumstance that height- 
ens the humour of the dialogue. The " twa 
dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, ana 
the contrast between their form and character 
as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the im- 
pression of the poet's satire. Though in this 
r.oein the chief excellence may be considered 
as humour, yet great talents are displayed in 
its composition ; the happiest powers of de- 
scription and the deepest insight into the hu- 
man heart.* It is seldom, however, that the 



* When this poem first appeared, it was thought by some 
very surprising that a peasant, who had not an opportunity 
of associating even with a simple geutlenian, should have 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



humour of Burns appears in so simple a form. 
The liveliness of his sensibility frequently 
impels him to introduce into subjects of 
humour, emotions of tenderness or of pity ; 
and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes 
carried on to exert the higher powers of imag- 
ination. In, such instances he leaves the 
society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and 
associates himself with the masters of English 
poetry, whose language he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
examples may be found in The Death and 
Dying Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld 
Farmer's New-Year's Morning Salutation to 
his Mare Maggie, and in many of his other 
poems. The praise of whiskey is a favourite 
subject with Burns. To this he dedicates his 
poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its 
cheering influence in a variety of situations, 
he describes, with singular liveliness and 
power of fancy, its stimulating effects on the 
blacksmith working at his forge : 

" Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 

The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

On another occasion,* choosing to exalt 
whiskey above wine, he introduces a compari- 
son between the natives of more genial climes, 
to whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and 
his own countrymen who drink the spirit of 
malt. The description of the Scotsman is 
humorous : 

«' But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's viil, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imag- 
ination of the poet. He goes on thus : 

" Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy band a welcome gies him, 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas." 

been able to portray the character of high-life with such 
accuracy. And when it was recollected that he had pro- 
bably been at the races of Ayr, where nobility as well as 
gentry are to be seen, it was concluded that the race- 
ground had been the field of his observation. This was 
sagacious enough ; but it did not require such instruction 
to inform Burns, that human nature is essentially the 
same in the high and the low ; and a genius which compre- 
hends the human mind, easily comprehends the accidental 
varieties introduced by situation. 

* « The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch 
Representatives in Parliament." 



Again, however, he sinks into humour » 
and concludes the poem with the following 
most laughable, but most irreverent apostro- 
phe: 

« Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and whiskey gang thegither, 

Tak aff your dram I 

Of this union of humour with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be 
found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the 
Address to the Deil, one of the happiest of his 
productions. After reproaching this terrible 
being with all his " doings" and misdeeds, in 
the course of which he passes through a series 
of Scotish superstitions, and rises at times into 
a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this ad- 
dress, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, 
not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in 
the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie ben ! 
O wad you tak a thought ar»' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — 1 dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon dea 

E'en for your sake !" 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Plainstones* of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and the New bridge over the 
river Aj r.f The nature of such subjects re- 
quires that they shall be treated humorously, 
and Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond 
this. Though the Causeway and the Plain- 
stones talk together, no attempt is made to 
personify the speakers. A " cadie"t heard 
the conversation and reported it to the poet 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on which it occurred is related with 
great circumstantiality. The poet, " pressed 
by care," or " inspired by whim," had left his 
bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out 
alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter- 
night, to the mouth of the river, where the 
stillness was interrupted only by the rushing 
sound of the influx of the tide. It was after 

J * The middle of the street, and the side-way. 

| r The Brigs of Ayr, Poems, p. 13. } A mcjscrgei 



76 

midnight. The Dungeon -clock* had struck 
two, and the sound had been repeated by 
Wallace-Tower.* All else was hushed. The 
moon shone brightly, and 



THB LIFE OP BURNS. 

his being carried beyond his original purpose 
by the powers of imagination. 



*» The chilly frost, beneath the sliver beam, 

Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream.**— 

In this situation the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, 
reared the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- 
scribes, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses. These genii enter into a 
comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 
usual between the old and young, com- 
pare modern characters and manners with 
those of past times. They differ, as may be 
expected, and taunt and scold each other in 
Broad Scotch. This conversation, which is 
certainly humorous, may be considered as 
the proper business of the poem. As the de- 
bate runs high, and threatens serious conse- 
quences, all at once it is interrupted by a new 
scene of wonders : 

" all before their sight 

A fairy train appeared in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ; 
They footed o'er the watVy glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
"While aru of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung." 



" The Genius of the Stream* in front appears— 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons, 
R ural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair; 
Learning and Wealth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode; 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel- wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of Death ; 
At tight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling 
wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
tdBplaya various and powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
In particular, it affords a striking instance of 



• The two st'.Tpicf of Ayr. 



In Fergusson's poems, the Plainstones and 

Causeway contrast the characters of the dif 

ferent persons who walked upon them. Burns 

I probably conceived, that, by a dialogue be- 

j tween the Old and New Bridge, he might 

I form a humorous contrast between ancient 

! and modern manners in the town of Ayr. 

Such a dialogue could only be supposed to 

pass in the stillness of night ; and this led our 

! poet into a description of a midnight scene, 

j which excited in a high degree the powers of 

j his imagination. During the whole dialogue 

j the scenery is present to his fancy, and at 

length it suggests to him a fairy dance of aerial 

beings, under the beams of the moon, by 

which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of 

Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 

poern are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 

j pleases ; and we have only to regret that the 

j poet did not bestow a little pains in making 

the figures more correct, and in smoothing the 

versification. 



The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 
cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esq. discover, 
like his other writings, the powers of a su- 
perior understanding. They display deep 
insight into human nature, a gay and happy 
j strain of reflection, great independence of 
sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to 
be regretted, that, in his Holy Fair, and in 
some of his other poems, his humour degener- 
ates into personal satire, and that it is not 
sufficiently guarded in other respects. The 
Halloween of Burns is free from every objec- 
tion of this sort. It is interesting, not merely 
from its humorous description of manners, but 
as it records the spells and charms used on 
the celebration of a festival, now, even in 
Scotland, falling into neglect, but which was 
once observed over the greater part of Britain 
and Ireland*. These charms are supposed to 
afford an insight into futurity, especially on 
the subject of marriage, the most interesting 
event of rural life. In the Halloween, a fe- 
male in performing one of the spells, has 
occasion, to go out by moonlight to dip her 
shift-sleeve into a stream running towards the 
South.] It was not necessary for Burns to 
give a description of this stream. But it was 
the character of his ardent mind to pour forth 
not merely what the occasion required, but 

* In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quite in dis- 
use in Wales, 
f Sec " Halloween," Stanzas xxiv. and xxv. 



what it admitted ; and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by 
moonlight, was not to be resisted— 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
"Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

"Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle j 
Whyles cookit underneath the braee* 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scotish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
- of description which the records of poetry 
afford. Though of a very different nature, it 
may be compared in point of excellence with 
Thomson's description of a river swollen by 
the rains of winter, bursting through the 
streights that confine its torrent, " boiling, 
wheeling, foaming, and thundering along/'* 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature, Burns ex- 
celled equally as in that of a humorous kind ; 
and, using less of the Scotish dialect in his 
serious poems, he becomes more generally 
intelligible. It is difficult to decide whether 
the Address to a Mouse, whose nest was turned 
tip with the plough, should be considered as 
serious or comic. Be this as it may, 
the po?m is one of the happiest and most 
finished of his productions. If we smile at 
the " bickering brattle" of this little flying 
animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. 
The descriptive part is admirable ; the moral 
reflections beautiful, and arising directly out 
of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there is 
a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and 
dread, that rises to the sublime. The Address 
to a Mountain Daisy, turned down with the 
Plough, is a poem of the same nature, though 
somewhat inferior in point of originality, as 
well as in the interest produced. To extract 
out of incidents so common, and seem- 
ingly so trivial as these, so fine a train of sen- 
timent and imagery, is the surest proof, as 
well as the most brilliant triumph, of original 
genius. The Vision, in two cantos, from 
which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. 
Mackenzie, in the 97th number of The Loun- 
ger, is a poem of great and various excellence. 
The opening, in which the poet describes his 
own state of mind, retiring, in the evening, 
wearied from the labours of the day, to mor- 
alize on his conduct and prospects, is truly 
interesting. The chamber, if we may so term 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 77 

it, in which he sits down to muse, is an ex- 



quisite painting : 

" There, lanely, by the ingle-check 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' beard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he however 
succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, 
attitude, and dress, unlike those of other 
spiritual beings, are distinctly portrayed. 
To the painting, on her mantle, on which is 
depicted the most striking scenery, as well as 
the most distinguished characters, of his 
native country, some exceptions may be made. 
The mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,* 
and the shield of Achilles, is too much crowd- 
ed with figures, and some of the objects re- 
presented upon it are scarcely admissible, 
according to the principles of design. The 
generous temperament of Burns led him into 
these exuberances. In his second edition he 
enlarged the number of figures originally in- 
troduced, that he might include objects to 
which he was attached by sentiments of affec- 
tion, gratitude or patriotism. The second 
Duan, or canto of this poem, in which Coila 
describes her own nature and occupations, 
particularly her superintendence of his infant 
genius, and in which she reconciles him to 
the character of a bard, is an elevated and 
solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all re- 
spects, excepting the harmony of numbers, 
with the higher productions of the English 
muse. The concluding stanza, compared 
with that already quoted, will show to what 
a height Burns rises in this poem, from the 
point at which he set out : — 

" And wear thou this— she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish ! d leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems, Burns has exhibited the 
picture of a mind under the deep impressions 
of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems, the 8th 
stanza, which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. 
Burns often indulged in those melancholy 
views of the nature and condition of man, 



* See Thomson's Winter. 



* Sec the first Idylliutn of Theocri'us. 



78 THE LIFE 

which are so congenial to the temperament ; 
of sensibility. The poem entitled Man was j 
made to Mourn, affords an instance of this j 
kind, and The Winter Night is of the same j 
description. The last is highly characteristic, j 
both of the temper of mind, and of the condi- 
tion of Burns. It begins with a description of j 
a dreadful storm on a night in winter. The j 
poet represents himself as lying in bed, and 
listening to its howling. In this situation he 
naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie Cattle 
and the silly Sheep, exposed to all the violence 
of the tempest. Having lamented their fate, 
he proceeds in the following manner : 

" Ilk happing bird— wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ?" 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind ; and as the midnight moon " muffled 
with clouds" casts her dreary light on his 
window, thoughts of a darker and more mel- 
ancholy nature crowd upon him. In this 
state of mind, he hears a voice pouring 
through the gloom a solemn and plaintive 
strain of reflection. The mourner compares 
the fury of the elements with that of man to 
his brother man, and finds the former light in 
the balance. 

" See stern oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land !" 

He pursues this train of reflection through 
a variety of particulars, in the course of 
which he introduces the following animated 
apostrophe : 

« c Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Wh om friends and fortune quite disown ! 

Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap !" 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
the poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Fergus- 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
as has been already mentioned ; but after the 



OF BURNS. 

plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely to 
his own powers /or the execution. Fergus- 
son's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has 
all the charms which depend on rural char- 
I acters and manners happily portrayed, and 
exhibited under circumstances highly grateful 
to the imagination. The Farmer's Ingle, be- 
gins with describing the return of evening. 
The toils of the day are over, and the farmer 
retires to his comfortable fire-side. The re- 
ception which he and his men-servants receive 
from the careful housewife, is pleasingly de- 
scribed. After their supper is over, they be- 
gin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wooed Jenny here to be his bride ; 
And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the fire, in the midst 
of her grand-children, and while she spins 
from the rock, and the spindle plays on her 
" russet lap," she is relating to the young ones 
tales of witches and ghosts. The poet ex- 
claims : 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near." 

In the mean time the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
length on the Settle, a sort of rustic couch, 
which extends on one side of the fire, and the 
cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive his 
caresses. Here resting at his ease, he gives 
his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The house-wife follows his ex- 
ample, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; 
the fire runs low ; sleep steals on this rustic 
group ; and they move off to enjoy their peace- 
ful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestow - 
iug his blessings on the " husbandman and 
all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing required 
in this species of composition. We might 
have perhaps said every thing that it admits, 
had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 
Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, 
has no servants to accompany him, to partake 
of his fare, or to receive his instructions. The 
circle which he joins, is composed of his wife 



and children only ; and if it admits of less 
variety, it affords an opportunity for repre- 
senting scenes that more strongly interest the 
affections. The younger children running to 
meet him, and clambering round his knee ; 
the elder, returning from their weekly labours 
with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully de- 
positing their little gains with their parents, 
and receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions ; the incidents of the courtship of 
Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
grown ;" are circumstances of the most in- 
teresting kind, which are most happily de- 
lineated ; and after their frugal supper, the 
representation of these humble cottagers 
forming a wider circle round their hearthj and 
uniting in the worship of God, is a picture the 
most deeply affecting of any which the rural 
muse has ever presented to the view. Burns 
was admirably adapted to this delineation. 
Like all men of genius he was of the tempera- 
ment of devotion, and the powers of memory 
co-operated in this instance with the sensi- 
bility of his heart, and the fervour of his ima- 
gination.* The Cotters Saturday Night is 
tender and moral, it is solemn and devotional, 
and rises at length into a strain of grandeur 
and sublimity, which modern poetry has not 
• surpassed. The noble sentiments of pa- 
triotism with which it concludes, correspond 
with the rest of the poem. In no age or 
country have the pastoral muses breathed 
such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope 
be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in 
form only. It is to be regretted that Burns 
did not employ his genius on other subjects 
of the same nature, which the manners and 
customs of the Scotish peasantry would have 
amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be es- 
timated by the degree of pleasure which if 
bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
is calculated far beyond any other human 
means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
and characters it so exquisitely describes.f 

"\ Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
offer a few observations on the lyric produc- 
tions of Burns. His compositions of this kind 
are chiefly songs, generally in the Scotish 
dialect, and always after the model of 
the Scotish songs, on the general charac- 
ter and moral influence of which, some 
observations have already been offered.:}: 
We may hazard a few more particular re- 
marks* 



* The reader will recollect that the Cotter was Burns* 
father. See p. 23. 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 79 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 



t See Appendix, No. II. Note D. 
X .Sec pp. 5, 6. 



land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has 
nowhere imitated them* a circumstance to be 
regretted, since in this species of composition, 
from its admitting the more terrible as well 
as the softer graces of poetry, he was emi- 
nently qualified to have excelled. The Scot- 
ish songs which served as a model to Burns, 
are almost without exception pastoral, or 
rather rural. Such of them as are comic, 
frequently treat of a rustic courtship or a 
country wedding ; or they describe the differ- 
ences of opinion which arise in married life. 
Burns has imitated this species, and sur- 
passed his models. The song, beginning, 
" Husband, husband, ce^se your strife,"* 
may be cited in support of this observation. t 
His other comic songs are of equal merit, fn 
the rural songs of Scotland, whether humor- 
ous or tender, the sentiments are given to 
particular characters, and very generally, the 
incidents are referred to particular scenery. 
This last circumstance may be considered as 
the distinguishing feature of the Scotish 
songs, and on it a considerable part of their 
attraction depends. On all occasions the 
sentiments, of whatever nature, are delivered 
in the character of the person principally in- 
terested. If love be described, it is not as it 
is observed, but as it is felt : and the passion 
is delineated under a particular aspect. Nei- 
ther is it the fiercer impulses of desire that 
are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of 
Sappho, the model of so many modern songs, 
but those gentler emotions of tenderness and 
affection, which do not entirely absorb the 
lover; but permit him to associate his emo- 
tions with the charms of external nature, and 
breathe the accents of purity and innocence, 
as well as of love. In these respects the love- 
songs of Scotland are honourably distin- 
guished from the most admired classical com- 
positions of the same kind: and by such as- 
sociations, a variety, as well as liveliness, is 
given to the representation of this passion, 
which are not to be found in the poetry of 
Greece or Rome, or perhaps of any other 
nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland 
describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may 
be considered as invocations from lovers (o 
their mistresses. On such occasions a degree 
of interest and reality is given to the senti- 



* See Poems, p. 95. 

t The dialogues between husbands and their wives, 
which form the subjects of the Scotish songs, are almost 
all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests the lady is 
generally victorious. From the collections of Mr. Pinker, 
ton we find that the comic muse of Scotland delighted in 
such representations from very early times, in her rude 
dramatic efforts, as well as in her rustic songs. 



< 



80 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



meats, .by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or 
on the Banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of Roslin, 
or the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot 
merely pointed out; the scenery is often de- 
'scribed as *vell as the characters, so as to 
present a complete picture to the fancy.* 
Thus the maxim of Horace ut pictura poesis, 
is faithfully observed by these rustic bards, 
who are guided by the same impulse of na- 
ture and sensibility which influenced the 
father of epic poetry, on whose example the 
precept of the Roman poet was perhaps 
founded. By this means the imagination is 
employed to interest the feelings. When we 
do not conceive distinctly, we do not sympa- 
thize deeply in any human affection ; and we 
conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstrac- 
tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 

* One or two examples may illustrate this- observation. 
A Scotish song, written about a hundred years ago, begins 
thus; 

" On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 
I met my lassie, braw and tight, 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane : 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clasped there'fu' lang 

My words they were na mony feck."* 

Tlie lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the 
language he employed with his Lowland maid to win her 
heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to the High- 
land hills, there to share his fortune. The sentiments 
are in themselves beautiful. But we feel them with 
double force, while we conceive that they were addressed 
by a lover to his mistress, whom he met all alone, on a 
summer's evening, by the banks of a beautiful stream, 
which some of us have actually seen, and which all of us 
can paint to our imagination. Let us take another ex- 
ample. It is now a nymph that speaks. Hear how she 
expresses herself— 

" How blythe each morn was I to see 

My swain come o'er the hill ! 
He skipt the bum, and flew to me, 

I met him with guid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Nature. 
We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a brook, 
watching her lover as he descends the opposite hill. He 
bounds lightly along ; he approaches nearer and nearer ; he 
U aps the brook, and flies into her arms. In the recollec- 
tion of these circumstances, the surrounding scenery be- 
comes endeared to the fair mourner, and she bursts into 
the following exclamation ; 

" O the broom, the bonnie, l>onnie broom, 

The broom of the Cowden-Knowes ! 
I wish I were with my dear swain. 

With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is pointed 
out, and the picture i.; completed. 

* KtHj/fick, not v<ry riuiny. 



science, must be abandoned when the heart 
is to be subdued by the powers of poetry or 
of eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition 
of society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets whose learning overpowers their 
genius ; of poets of a refined and scientific 
age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scotish songs, while it contributes 
greatly to the interest they excite, also shows 
that they have originated among a people in 
the earlier stages of society. Where this 
form of composition appears in songs of a 
modern date, it indicates that they have been 
written after the ancient model.* 

The Scotish songs are of very unequal 
poetical merit, and this inequality often ex- 
tends to the different parts of the same song. 
Those that are humorous, or characteristic of 
manners, have in general the merit of copying 
nature ; those that are serious, are tender, 
and often sweetly interesting, but seldom ex- 
hibit high powers of imagination, which in- 
deed do not easily find a place in this species 
of composition. The alliance of the words 

* That the dramatic form of writing characterizes the 
productions of an early, or, what amounts to the same 
thing, of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a 
reference to the most ancient compositions that we know 
of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the writings of Horner. 
The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scotish ballads 
e»en in narration, whenever the situations described be- 
come interesting. This sometimes produces a very strik- 
ing effect, of which an instance may be given from the 
ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a composition apparently of 
the sixteenth century. The story of the ballad is shortly 
this.— The castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, is 
attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon. The lady stands 
on her defence, beats off the assailants, and wounds Gor- 
don, who, in his rage, orders the castle to be set on fire. 
That his orders are carried into effect, we leam from the 
expostulation of the lady, who is represented as standing 
on the battlements, and remonstrating on this barbarity. 
She is interrupted — 

" then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee; 
Says, ' mither dear, gl' owre this house, 

For the reek it smithers me.' 
" I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee, 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind, 
To blaw the reek frae thee.* 

The circumstantiality of the Scotish love-songs, and the 
dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, pro- 
oably arises from their being the descendants and succes- 
sors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful modern song 
ztMary of Castle-Cart/, the dramatic form has a very 
happy effect. The same may be said of Dcnaldand Fiora, 
and Come under my plahhe, by the same anther, Mr. 
Matnicl. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



81 



of the Scotish songs with the music, has in 
some instances given to the former a popu- 
larity, which otherwise they would not have 
obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs, with the more beautiful parts 
of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the 
same effect. It has given them not merely 
popularity, but permanence ; it has imparted 
to the works of man some portion of the dura- 
bility of the works of nature. If, from our 
imperfect experience of the past, we may 
judge with any confidence respecting the 
future, songs of this description are of all 
others least likely to die. In the changes of 
language they may no doubt suffer change ; 
but the associated strain of sentiment and of 
music will perhaps survive, while the dear 
stream sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, 
or the yellow broom waves on Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His habitual in- 
attention to the exactness of rhymes, and to 
the harmony of numbers, arising probably 
from the models on which his versification 
was formed, were faults likely to appear to 
more disadvantage in this species of composi- 
tion, than in any other ; and we may also re- 
mark, that the strength of his imagination, 
and the exuberance of his sensibility, were 
with difficulty restrained within the limits of 
gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of his 
nation. Burns was better adapted by nature 
for following, in such compositions, the model 
of the Grecian than that of the Scotish muse. 
By study and practice he however surmounted 
all these obstacles. In his earlier songs, 
there is some ruggedness ; but this gradually 
disappears in his successive efforts ; and some 
of his later compositions of this kind may 
be compared, in polished delicacy, with 
the finest songs in our language, while in 
the eloquence of sensibility they surpass them 
all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, 
and for the greater part amatory; and the 
beauties of rural nature are every where as- 
sociated with the passions and emotions of 
the mind. Disdaining to copy the works of 
others, he has not, like some poets of great 
name, admitted into his descriptions exotic 
imagery. The* landscapes he has painted, 
and the objects with which they are embel- 
lished, are, in every single instance, such as 



are to be found in his own country. In a 
I mountainous region, especially when it is 
comparatively rude and naked, the most 
J beautiful scenery will always be found in the 
I valleys, and on the banks of the wooded 
streams. Such scenery is peculiarly interest- 
ing at the close of a summer-day. As we ad- 
vance northwards, the number of the days of 
summer, indeed, diminishes; but from this 
J cause, as well as from the mildness of the 
temperature, the attraction of the season in- 
creases, and the summer-night becomes still 
more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the 
sun's path on the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful 
season of twilight to the midnight- hours : and 
\ the shades of the evening seem to mingle 
with the morning's dawn. The rural poets 
of Scotland, as may be expected, associate in 
their songs the expressions of passion, with 
the most beautiful of their scenery, in the 
fairest season of the year, and generally 
in those hours of the evening when the beau- 
ties of nature are most interesting.* 

To all these adventitious- circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry de- 
pends, great attention is paid by Burns. 
There is scarcely a single song of his, in 
which particular scenery is not described, or 
allusions made to natural objects, remarkable 
for beauty or interest: and though his de- 
scriptions are not so full as are sometimes 
met with in the older Scotish songs, they are 
in the highest degree appropriate and interest- 
ing. Instances in proof of this might be 



* A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains high ad- 
miration (Mrs. Barbauld,) has fallen into an error in this 
respect. In her prefatory address to the works of Col 
lins, speaking of the natural objects that may be employed 
to give interest to the descriptions of passion, she observes, 
«• they present an inexhaustible variety, from the Song ot 
Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to the 
Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose damsels carry their 
milking-pails through the frosts and snows of their lees 
genial, but not less pastoral country," The damsels of 
Ramsay do not walk in the midst of frost and snow.— 
Almost all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid 
in the open air, amidst beautiful natural objects, and at the 
most genial season of the year. Rarmay introduces all his 
acts with a prefatory description to assure us of this. The 
fault of the climate of Britain is not, that it does not af- 
ford us the beauties of summer, but that the season of 
such beauties is comparatively short, and even uncertain. 
There are days and nights, even in the northern division 
of the island, which equal, or perhaps, surpass, what are 
to be found in the latitude of Sicily, or of Greece. Buchan- 
an, when he wrote his exquitite Ode to May, felt the 
charm as well as the transientness of these happy day6: 

Salve fugacis gloria scculi, 
Salve secunda digna dies nota, 
Salve vetusta; vita? imago, 
Et specimen venientls .55 vi. 

M 



I 32 THE LIFE 

quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland Mary, the 
Soldier's Return, Logan Water; from that 
beautiful pastoral Bonnie Jean, and a great 
number of others. Occasionally the force of 
his genius carries him beyond the usual 
boundaries of Scotish song, and the natural 
bjects introduced have more of the character 
of sublimity. An instance of this kind is 
noticed by Mr. Syme,* and many others might 
be adduced : 



«« Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar : 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a 
■winter-night, the " wan moon" is described 
as " setting behind the white waves ;" in 
another, the " storms" are apostrophized, and 
commanded to " rest in the cave of their 
slumbers," on several occasions, the genius of 
Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, 
and rises into a strain of uniform sublimity. 
Instances of this kind appear in Libertie a 
Vision; and in his two war-songs, Bruce to 
his Troops, and the Song of Death. These last 
are of a description of which we have no 
other in our language. The martial songs of 
our nation are not military, but naval. If we 
were to seek a comparison of these songs of 
Burns with others of a similar nature, we 
must have recourse to the poetry of ancient 
Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to 
the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, 
the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the 
music. He has enlarged the poetical scenery 
of his country. Many of her rivers and 
mountains, formerly unknown to the muse, 
are now consecrated by his immortal verse. 
The Doou, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and 
the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as 
classic streams, and their borders will be 
trodden with new and superior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed 
while walking in the open air. When en- 
gaged in writing these songs, his favourite 
walks were on the banks of the Nith, or of 
the Cluden, particularly near the ruins of 
Lincluden Abbey ; and this beautiful scenery 

* See p. 53. 



OF BURNS. 

he has very happily described under various 
aspects, as it appears during the softness and 
serenity of evening, and during the stillness 
and solemnity of the moon-light night.* 

There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tions of the drama not excepted, so much 
calculated to influence the morals, as well as 
the happiness of a people, as those popular 
verses which are associated with national 
airs ; and which being learned in the years of 
infancy, make a deep impression on the heart 
before the evolution of the powers of the un- 
derstanding. The compositions of Burns of 
this kind, now presented in a collected form 
to the world, make a most important addition 
to the popular songs of his nation. Like all 
his other writings, they exhibit independence 
of sentiment; they are peculiarly calculated 
to increase those ties which bind generous 
hearts to their native soil, and to the domestic 
circle of their infancy ; and to cherish those 
sensibilities which, under due restriction, form 
the purest happiness of our nature. If in his 
unguarded moments he composed some songs 
on which this praise cannot be bestowed, let 
us hope that they will speedily be forgotten. 
In several instances, where Scotish airs were 
allied to words objectionable in point of deli- 
cacy, Burns has substituted others of a purer 
character. On such occasions, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. 
A proof of this may be seen in the air of John 
Anderson my Joe, which is now united to 
words that breathe a strain of conjugal tender- 
ness, that is as highly moral as it is exquisite- 
ly affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's ge- 
nius, than the general circulation of his poems 
in England, notwithstanding the dialect in 
which the greater part are written, and which 
might be supposed to render them here un- 
couth or obscure. In some instances he has 
used this dialect on subjects of a sublime na- 
ture ; but in general he confines it to senti- 
ments or description of a lender or humorous 
kind; and where he rises into elevation of 
thought, he assumes a purer English style. 
The singular faculty he possessed of mingling 
in the same poem, humorous sentiments and 
descriptions, with imagery of a sublime and 
terrific nature, enabled him to use this variety 
of dialect on some occasions with striking ef- 
fect. His poem of Tarn o' Shanter affords an 
instance of this. There he passes from a scene 
of the lowest humour, to situations of the 
most awful and terrible kind. He is a musi- 



* See Poems, p. 96; & the vision, p 117. 






THE LIFE 

cian that runs from the lowest to the highest 
of his keys ; and the use of the Scotish dialect 
enables him to add two additional notes to the 
bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabit- 
ants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard ; and this has made it difficult to 
write in the Scotish dialect, without exciting 
in them some feelings of disgust, which in 
England are scarcely felt. An Englishman i 
who understands the meaning of the Scotish 
words, is not offended, nay, on certain sub- 
jects, he is perhaps, pleased with the rustic 
dialect, as he may be with the Doric Greek of 
Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has banished such words 
from his writings, and has attempted to ban- 
ish them from his speech : and being accus- 
tomed to hear them from the vulgar, daily, 
does not easily admit of their use in poetry, 
.which requires a style elevated and ornamen- 
tal. A dislike of this kind is however, acci- 
dental, not natural. It is of the species of 
disgust which we feel at seeing a female of 
high birth in the dress of a rustic ; which, if 
she be really young and beautiful, a little 
habit will enable us to overcome. A lady 
who assumes such a dress puts her beauty, 
indeed, to a severer trial. She rejects— she, 
indeed, opposes the influence of fashion ; she 
possibly abandons the grace of elegant and 
flowing drapery ; but her native charms re- 
main the more striking, perhaps, because the 
less adorned ; and to these she trusts for fixing 
her empire on those affections over which 
fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new 
association arises. The dress of the beautiful 
rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establish- 
es a new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemplative 
observer shall view her picture in the gallery 
that contains the portraits of the beauties of 
successive centuries, each in the dress of her 
respective day, her drapery will not deviate, 
more than that of her rivals, from the standard 
of his taste, and he will give the palm to her 
who excels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
of his country, and by them their native dia- 
lect is universally relished. To a numerous 
class of the natives of Scotland of another de- 
scription, it may also be considered as attrac- 
tive in a different point of view. Estranged 
from their native soil, and spread over foreign 



OF BURNS. 83 

lands, the idiom of their country unites with 
the sentiments and the descriptions on which 
it is employed, to recal to their minds the in- 
teresting scenes of infancy and youth — to 
awaken many pleasing, many tender recol- 
lections. Literary men, residiug at Edin- 
burgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on this point 
for one hundred and fifty thousand of their 
expatriated countrymen.* 

To the use of the Scotish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the 
taste of the public has been for some time re* 
conciled. The dialect in question excels, as 
has already been observed, in the copiousness 
and exactness of its terms for natural objects ; 
and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a 
Doric simplicity, which is very generally ap- 
proved. Neither does the regret seem well 
founded which some persons of taste have 
expressed, that Burns used this dialect in so 
many other of his compositions. His declared 
purpose was to paint the manners of rustic 
life among his " humble compeers," and it is 
not easy to conceive, that this could have been 
done with equal humour and effect, if he had 
not adopted their idiom. There are some, 
indeed, who will think the subject too low for 
poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find 
their delicacies consulted in many a polite 
and learned author : let them not seek for 
gratification in the rough and vigorous lines, 
in the unbridled humour, or in the overpower- 
ing sensibility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of 
Burns would be no easy task. Many persons, 
afterwards distinguished in literature, have 
been born in as humble a situation of life ; but 
it would be difficult to find any other who, 
while earning his subsistence by daily labour, 
has written verses which have attracted and 
retained universal attention, and which are 
likely to give the author a permanent and 
distinguished place among the followers of the 
muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- 
tinguished for ease as well as energy; and 
these are indications of the higher order of 

* These observations are excited by some remarks of 
respectable correspondents of the description alluded to. 
This calculation of the number of Scotchmen living out of 
Scotland is not altogether arbitrary, and it is probably be- 
low the truth. It is, in some degree, founded on the pro- 
portion between the number of the sexes in Scotland, as it 
appears from the invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. 
— For Scotchmen of this description more particularly, 
Burns seems to have written his song, beginning. Their 
groves o' sweet ?nyrtle t a beautiful strain, which, it may be 
confidently predicted, will be sung with equal or superior 
interest on the banks of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, 
as on those of the Tay or the Tweed. 



84 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits 
one of his heroes as excelling in strength, 
another in swiftness— to form his perfect 
warrior, these attributes are combined. 
Every species of intellectual superiority 
admits, perhaps of a similar arrangement. 
One writer excels in force— another in ease ; 
he is superior to them both, in whom both 
these qualities are united. Of Homer him- 
self it may be said, that, like his own Achil- 
les, he surpasses his competitors in nobility as 
well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His 
sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one 



of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the 
ancients, and which in modern times is only 
due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps 
to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the 
Scotish peasant with the works of these giants 
in literature, might appear presumptuous ; 
yet it may be asserted that he has displayed 
the foot of Hercules. How near he might have 
approached them by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we 
run over the melancholy story of his life, it is 
impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune ; and as we survey the records 
of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of 
such materials have been reared the fairest 
and the most durable of the monuments of 
genius. 






GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 

DR. CURRIE'S 
EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



It is impossible to dismiss this Volume* of the 
Correspondence of our Bard, without some 
anxiety as to the reception it may meet with. 
The experiment we are making has not often 
been tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so 
large a portion of the recent and unpremedita- 
ted effusions of a man of genius been commit- 
ted to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
erable number were transmitted for publica- 
tion, by the individuals to whom they were 
addressed ; but very few have been printed 
entire. It will easily be believed, that in a 
series of letters written without the least 
view to publication, various passages were 
found unfit for the press, from different con- 
siderations. It will also be readily supposed, 
that our Poet, writing nearly at the same time, 
and under the same feelings to different in- 
dividuals, would sometimes fall into the same 
train of sentiment and forms of expression. 
To avoid, therefore, the tediousness of such 
repetitions, it has been found necessary to 
mutilate many of the individual letters, and 
sometimes to exscind parts of great delicacy— 
the unbridled effusions of panegyric and re- 
gard. But though many of the letters are 
printed from originals furnished by the persons 
to whom they were addressed, others are prin- 
ted from first draughts, or sketches, found 
among the papers of our Bard. Though in 
general no man committed his thoughts to his 
correspondents with less consideration or 
effort than Burns, yet it appears that in some 
instances he was dissatisfied with his first es- 
says, and wrote out his communications in a 
fairer character, or perhaps in more studied 
language. In the chaos of his manuscripts, 
some of the original sketches were found ; and 
as these sketches, though less perfect, are fair- 
ly to be considered as the offspring of his 
mind, where they have seemed in themselves 

• Dr. Curric'a edition of Burns's Work's, was originally 
published in four volumes, of which Ihe following Corres- 
pondence formed the ieconcL 



worthy of a place in this volume, we have not 
hesitated to insert them, though they may not 
always correspond exactly with the letters 
transmitted, which have been lost or with- 
held. 

Our author appears at one time to have 
formed an intention of making a collection of 
his letters for the amusement of a friend. Ac- 
cordingly he copied an inconsiderable number 
of them into a book, which he presented to 
Robert Riddle, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among 
these was the account of his life, addressed to 
Dr. Moore, and printed in the first volume.* In 
copying from his imperfect sketches (it does 
not appear that he had the letters actually 
sent to his correspondents before him,) he 
seems to have occasionally enlarged his obser- 
vations, and altered his expressions. In such 
instances his emendations have been adopted ; 
but in truth there are but five of the letters 
thus selected by the poet, to be found in the 
present volume, the rest being thought of in- 
ferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the public 
eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has 
found some corrections of grammar necessary ; 
but these have been very few, and such as may 
be supposed to occur in the careless effusions, 
even of literary characters, who have not 
been in the habit of carrying their compo- 
sitions to the press. These corrections have 
never been extended to any habitual modes of 
expression of the Poet, even where his phra- 
seology may seem to violate the delicacies of 
taste ; or the idiom of our language, which he 
wrote in general with great accuracy. Some 
difference will indeed be found in this respect 
in his earlier and in his later compositions ; 
and this volume will exhibit the progress of 
his style, as well as the history of his mind. 
In the Fourth Edition, several new letters 
were introduced, and some of inferior impor- 
tance were omitted. 

* Occupying from page to page 16 of this Edition 



IL IB V V IB IB 8» 

S>c. 



No. I. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
Lochlee, 15th January, 1783. 

DEAR SIR, 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that I have not forgotten nor ever will forget, 
the many obligations I lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teach- 
er ; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity 
with such a recital as you would be pleased 
with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be 
the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
vicious habits ; and in this respect,. I hope my 
conduct will not disgrace the education I have 
gotten ; but as a man of the world, I am most 
miserably deficient. — One would have thought 
that bred as 1 have been, under a father who 
has figured pretty well as un homme des af- 
faires, I might have been what the world calls 
a pushing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the 
truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my 
reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world 
to see, and observe ; and I very easily com- 
pound with the knave who tricks me of my 
money, if there be any thing original about 
him which shows me human nature in a dif- 
ferent light from any thing I have seen before. 
In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, 
their manners, and their ways ;" and for this 
darling object, I cheerfully sacrifice every 
other consideration. I am quite indolent 
about those great concerns that set the bust- 
ling busy sons of care agog; and if I have to 
answer for the present hour, I am very easy 



with regard to any thing further. Even the 
last, Worthy shift of the unfortunate and the 
wretched does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country-folks 
call " a sensible crack/' when once it is 
sanctified by a hoary head, would procure 
me so much esteem, that even then — 1 would 
learn to be happy.* However, I am under 
no apprehensions about that ; for, though in- 
dolent, yet, so far as an extremely delicate 
constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in 
many things, especially in tavern-matters, I 
am a strict economist ; not indeed for the 
sake of the money, but one of the principal 
parts in my composition is a kind of pride of 
stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of any 
man living ; above every thing, I abhor, a 3 
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid 
a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
whom in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
this, and this alone, that endears economy to 
me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am 
very profuse. My favourite authors are of 
the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, par- 
ticularly his Elegies; Thomson; Man of FeeL 
ing, a book I prize next to the Bible ; Man of 
the World: Steime, especially his Sentimental 
Journey ; M l Pherson 7 s Ossian, &c. These are 
the glorious models after which I endeavour 
to form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis 
absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind 
glows with the sentiments lighted up at their 
sacred flame — the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race — he 
" who can soar above this little scene of 
things," can he descend to mind the paltry con- 
cerns about which the terrsefilial race fret, and 
fume, and vex themselves ? O how the glori- 
ous triumph swells my heart ! 1 forget that I 
am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs and 
markets, when I happen to be in them, read- 

• The last shift alluded to here, must be the condition 
of an itinerant beggar. 



88 



LETTERS, 



Ing a page or two of mankind, and " catching I April, 1783. 

the manners living as they rise," whilst the | Notwithstanding all that has been said 
men of business jostle me on every side as an against love, respecting the folly and weak- 
idle incumbrance in their way. But 1 dare | ness it leads a young inexperienced mind 



say 1 have by this time tired your patience ; 
so I shall conclude with begging you to give 
Mrs. Murdoch — not my compliments, for that 
is a mere common-place story, but my warm- 
est, kindest wishes for her welfare ; and ac- 
cept of the same for yourself from, Dear Sir, 
Your's, &c. 



No. II. 

The following Is taken from the MS. Prose j resented 
by our Bard to Mr. Riddel. 

On rummaging over some old papers, I 
lighted on a MS. of my early years, in which 
I had determined to write myself out, as I 
was placed by fortune among a class of men 
to whom my ideas would have been non- 
sense. I had meant that the book should 
have lain by me, in the fond hope that, some 
time or other, even after I was no more, my 
thoughts would fall into the hands of some- 
body capable of appreciating their value. It 
sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, 
Sfc. by R. B. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping it ; 
but was, however, a man of some sense, a 
great deal of honesty, and unbounded good 
will to every creature rational and irrational. 
As he was but little indebted to scholastic 
education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- 
formances must be strongly tinctured with his 
unpolished rustic way of life ; but as I believe 
they are really his own, it may be some enter- 
tainment to a curious observer of human na- 
ture, to see how a ploughman thinks and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, 
anxiety, grief, with the like cares and pas- 
sions, which, however diversified by the modes 
and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, 
I believe, on all the speciea. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put them 
upon recording their observations, and allow- 
ing them the same importance which they 
do to those which appear in print," — Shen- 
stone. 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expir'd, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed ! 

Sucli was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind."— Ibid. 



into; still I think it in a great measure de- 
serves the highest encomiums that have been 
passed on it. If any thing on earth de- 
serves the name of rapture or transport, 
it is the feelings of green eighteen, in 
the company of the mistress of his heart, 
when she repays him with an equal return of 
affection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion be- 
tween love, and music, and poetry ; and there- 
fore I have always thought a fine touch of 
nature, that passage in a modern love-com- 
position : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I 
got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme 
and song were* in a manner, the spontaneous 
language of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can imbitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or 
crimes have made us miserable and wretched, 
to bear tip with marily firmness, and at the 
same time have a proper penitential sense of 
our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self- 
command. 

" Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Has this to say — * It was no deed of mine ;' 

But when to all the evils of misfortune 

This sting is added—' Blame thy foolish self !' 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 

The young, the, innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin I 

O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 



LETTERS. 



80 



Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
O happy ! happy 1 enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul !" 



March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, that every man, 
even the worst, has something good about 
him; though very often nothing else than a 
happy temperament of constitution inclining 
him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no 
man can say in what degree any other person, 
besides himself, can be, with strict justice, 
called wicked. Let any of the strictest char- 
acter for regularity of conduct among us, ex- 
amine impartially how many vices he has 
never been guilty of, not from any care or 
vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or 
some accidental circumstance intervening ; 
how many of the weaknesses of mankind he 
has escaped, because he was out of the line 
of such temptation ; and, what often, if not 
always, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good 
opinion, because the world does not know all. 
I say, any man who can thus think, will scan 
the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of 
my character ; those who, by thoughtless 
prodigality or headstrong passions have been 
driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, 
nay, sometimes " stained with guilt, * * 
* * *," I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest 
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinter- 
ested friendship, and even modesty. 



April. 

As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical 
mortal, I have various sources of pleasure 
and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, pe- 
culiar to myself, or some here and there such 
other out-of-the-way person. Such is the pe- 
culiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, 
more than the rest of the year. This, I be- 
lieve may be partly owing to my misfortunes 



giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there 
is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch 'J o'er the buried earth."-. 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives mo 
more — I do not know if I should call it pleas- 
ure — but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of a wood, or high planta- 
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, aud hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees and 
raving over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion : my mind is rapt up in a kind of 
enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous 
language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the 
wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, 
just after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. Poems, p. 29. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led 
into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, 
for that reason I put the more confidence in 
my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery 
and conceit from real passion and nature. 
Whether the following song will stand the test, 
I will not pretend to say, because it is my 
own ; only I can say it was, at the time genu- 
ine from the heart. 



Behind yon hills, &c. 



-See Poems, p. 59. 



I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division ot 
those who are goaded on by the love of money, 
and those whose darling wish is to make a 
figure in the world. The merry are, the men 
of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial 
lads, who have too much fire and spirit to 
have any settled rule of action ; but, without 
much deliberation follow the strong impulses 
of nature : the thoughtless, the careless, the 
N 



90 



LETTERS. 



indolent— in particular he, who, with a happy 
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful 
vacancy of thought, steals through life — 
generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; 
but poverty and obscurity are only evils to 
him who can sit gravely down and make a 
repining comparison between his own situa- 
tion and that of others ; and lastly, to grace 
the quorum, such as are, generally, those 
whose heads are capable of all the towerings 
of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with 
all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to culti- 
vate an intercourse with that Being to whom 
we owe our life, with every enjoyment that 
can render life delightful ; and to maintain an 
integritive conduct towards our fellow-crea- 
tures; that so, by forming piety and virtue 
into habit, we may be fit members for that 
society of the pious and the good, which 
reason and revelation teach us to expect be- 
yond the grave ; I do not see that the turn of 
mind and pursuits of any son of poverty and 
obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the 
sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, 
even lawful, bustling and straining after the 
world's riches and honours ; and I do not see 
but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, 
by the bye, is no mean consideration,) who 
steals through the vale of life, amusing him- 
self with every little flower, that fortune 
throws in his way; as he who, straining 
straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all 
about him, gains some of life's little eminen- 
ces ; where, after all he can only see, and be 
seen, a little more conspicuously than what, 
in the pride of hi^ heart, he is apt to term the 
poor indolent devil he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, 
which show them to be the work of a masterly 
hand ; and it has often given me many a heart- 
ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards- 
bards who very probably owed all their 
talents to native genius, yet have described 
tho exploits of heroes, the pangs of disap- 
pointment, and the meltings of love, with such 
line strokes of nature— that their very names 
(O how mortifying to a bajd's vanity!) are 
now " buried among the wreck of things 
which were'." 

O ye illustrious names unknown! who 
could feel so strongly and describe so well ; 



the last, the meanest of the muses' train — on© 
who, though far inferior to your flights, yet 
eyes your path, and with trembling wing 
would sometimes soar after you — a poor 
rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic 
pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us 
with all the charms of verse, that you have 
been unfortunate in the world — unfortunate 
in love : he too has felt the loss of his little 
fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than 
all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like 
you, all his consolation was his muse : she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your 
strength of imagination and flow of verse ! 
May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and 
may you now enjoy that solace and rest which 
this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to 
all the feelings of poesy and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and 
more than all. R. B. 



No. III. 

TO Mr. AIKIN. 

The Gentleman to whom the Cotter's Snturday Night 
is addressed. 



Sir, 



Ayrshire, 1786. 



I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other 
day, and settled all our by-gone matters be- 
tween us. After I had paid him all demands, 
I made him the offer of the second edition, on 
the hazard of being paid out of the first and 
readiest, which he declines. By his account, 
the paper of a thousand copies would cost 
about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen ; he offers to agree to 
this for the printing, if I will advance for the 
paper; .but this you know, is out of my 
power, so farewell hopes of a second edition 
till I grow richer ! an epocha, which, I think, 
will arrive at the payment of the British na- 
tional debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointed of my second 
edition, as not having it in my power to show 
my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publish- 
ing my poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I would 
detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were 
capable, in a very long life, of forgetting the 
honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which 



LETTERS. 

\e enters into my interests. I am sometimes 
pleased with myself in my grateful sensations ; 
but I believe, on the whole, 1 have very little 
merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the 
consequence of reflection, but sheerly the 
instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to 
allow worldly maxims and views to settle into 
selfish habits. 



' I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against 
it, the uncertainty of getting soon into busi- 
ness, the consequences of my follies, which 
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to 
stay at home ; and besides, I have for some 
time been pining under secret wretchedness, 
from causes which you pretty well know — the 
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, 
with some wandering stabs of remorse, which 
never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, 
when attention is not called away by the calls 
of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even 
in the hour of social mirth, my gayety is the 
madness of an intoxicated criminal under the 
hands of the executioner. All these reasons 
urge me to go abroad ; and to all these rea- 
sons I have only one answer — the feelings of a 
father. This, in the present mood 1 am in, 
overbalances everything that can be laid in 
the scale against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul ; though sceptical in some 
points of our current belief, yet, I think, I 
have. every evidence for the reality of a life 
beyond the stinted bourn of our present ex- 
istence ; if so, then how should I, in the 
presence of that tremendous Being, the 
Author of existence, how should I meet the 
reproaches of those who stand to me in the 
dear relation of children, whom I deserted in 
the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? O 
thou great, unknown Power ! thou Almighty 
God ! who has lighted up reason in my breast, 
and blessed me with immortality ! I have fre- 
quently wandered from that order and reg- 
ularity necessary for the perfection of thy 
works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken 
me. 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should 
you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful 



91 
in your applications for me, perhaps it may not 
be in my power in that way to reap the fruit 
of your friendly efforts. What I have written 
in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of 
my present resolution ; but should inimical 
circumstances forbid me closing with your 
kind offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to 
entail farther misery — 



To tell the truth, I have littls reason for 
complaint, as the world, in general, has been 
kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, 
for some time past, fast getting into the pining 
distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw 
myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- 
directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all 
defenceless, I looked about in vain for a 
cover. It never occurred to me, at least never 
with the force it deserved, that this world is 
a busy scene, and man a creature destined for 
a progressive struggle ; and that, however I 
might possess a warm heart and inoffensive 
manners (which last by the bye, was rather 
more than I could well boast) still, more than 
these passive qualities, there was something 
to be done. When all my school-fellows and 
youthful compeers (those misguided few ex- 
cepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, 
the hallachores of the human race,) were strik- 
ing off with eager hope and earnest intention 
some one or other of the many paths of 
busy life, I was standing ' idle in the market- 
place,' or only left the chace of the butterfly 
from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, 1 stand 
a fair chance, but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it.* 



No. IV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUN LOP. 
Ayrshire, 1786. 

MADAM, 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yes- 
terday when I was so much honoured with 

* This letter was evidently written under the distress of 
mind occasioned by our Poet's separation from Mrs. Bums. 
E. 



92 



your order for my copies, and incomparably 
more by the handsome compliments }ou are 
pleased to pay my poetic abilities. 1 am fully 
persuaded that there is not auy class of man- 
kind so feelingly alive to tne titillations of 
applause, as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it 
easy to conceive how the heart of the poor 
bard dances with rapture, when those whose 
character in life gives them a right to be po- 
lite judges, honour him with their approbation. 
Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, 
Madam, you could not have touched my dar- 
ling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing 
my attempts to celebrate your illustrious an- 
cestor, the Saviour of his Country. 

tl Great patriot-hero ! ill-requited chief !" 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was Hie Life 
of Hannibal ; the next was The History of Sir 
William Wallace; for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the la- 
borious vocations of the day, to shed a tear 
over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days 1 remember in particular 
being struck with that part of Wallace's story 
where these lines occur— 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
i/iy line of life allowed, and walked half a 
dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leg- 
len wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as 
ever pilgrim did to Loretto; and, as I ex- 
plored, every den and dell where I could 
suppose my heroic countryman to have lod- 
ged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhy- 
mer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be 
able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits. 



No. V. 

TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1786. 
MADAM, 

The hurry of my preparations for going 
abroad has hindered me from performing my 
promise so soon as I intended, I have here 
sent you a parcel of songs. &c, which never 
made their appearance, except to a friend or 
two at most. Perhaps some of them may be 
no great entertainment to you ; but of that I 
am far from being an adequate judge. The 
song to the tune of Etlrick Banks, you will 
easily see the impropriety of exposing much, 



JLETTERS. 

even in manuscript. 1 think, myself, it hat 
some merit, both as a tolerable description ot 
one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July even- 
ing, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's 
workmanship, the finest, indeed, we know any 
thing of, an amiable, beautiful young woman ;* 
but I have no common friend to procure me 
that permission, without which I would not 
dare to spread the copy. 



I am quite aware, Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The ob- 
scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar 
with the incense of flattery. Their high an- 
cestry, their own great and godlike qualities 
and actions, should be recounted with the 
most exaggerated description. This, Madam, 
is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Be- 
sides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I 
know nothing of your connexions in life, and 
have no access to where your real character is 
to be found — the company of your compeers ; 
and more, I am afraid that even the most re- 
fined adulation is by no means the road to 
your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the recep- 
tion I got when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
politeness ; but I know a good deal of benevo- 
lence of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- 
ly, did those in exalted stations know how 
happy they could make some classes of tin ir 
inferiors by condescension and affability, they 
would never stand so high, measuring out 
with every look the height of their elevation, 
but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart 
of Stair. 



No. VI. 

IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN. 

We Robert Burns, by virtue of a Warrant 
from Nature, bearing date the Twenty-fifth 
day of January, Anno Domini one thousand 
seven hundred and fifty nine,t Poet-Laureai 
and Bard in Chief in and over the Districts 
and Countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and 
Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and 
well-beloved William Cha/.mers and John 
M' Adam, Students and Practitioners in the an- 

+ The song enclosed is the one beginning, 

' Twas even— the dewy fields -were green, Slc. 

See Ponnt, p. 76. 

i His birth-day. 



LETTEHS 

cient and mysterious Science of Confounding 
Right and Wrong. 
Right Trusty, 
Be it known unto you, That whereas, in the 
course of our care and watchings over the 
Order, and Police of all and sundry the Manu- 
facturers, Retainers, and Venders of Poe- 
sy ; Bards, Poets, Poetasters, Rhymers, 
Jinglers, Songsters, Ballad- singers, &c, &c, 
&c, &c, &c, male and female — We have dis- 
covered a certain * * *, nefarious, abom- 
inable, and Wicked Song, or Ballad, a copy- 
whereof We have here enclosed ; Our Will 
therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint 
the most execrable Individual of that most 
execrable Species, known by the appellation, 
phrase, and nickname of The Deil's Yell 
Nowte ;* and, after having caused him to 
kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall at 
noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's 
merciless hands the said copy of the said ne- 
farious and wicked Song, to be consumed by 
fire in the presence of all Beholders, in abhor- 
rence of, and terrorem to all such Composi- 
tions and Composers. And this in no wise 
leave ye undone, but have it executed in 
every point as this Our Mandate bears, 
before the twenty-fourth current, when in 
person We hope to applaud your faithfulness 
and zeal. 



Given at Mauchline, this twentieth day of 
November, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty six.f 

God save the bard ! 



No. VII. 



DR. BLACKLOCK 
TO THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE. 

reverend and dear sir, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour 
long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind 
remembrance, but as it gave me an opportu- 
nity of shaving one of the finest, and, perhaps, 
one of the most genuine entertainments, of 
which the human mind is susceptible. A 
number of avocations retarded my progress in 
reading the poems ; at last, however, I have 
finished that pleasing perusal. Many instan- 
ces have I seen of Nature's force and benefi- 
cence exerted under numerous and formidable 
disadvantages ; but none equal to that with 

• Old Bachelors, 
t Enclosed was the ballad, probably Holy Willie's 
Prayer. E. 



93 

which you have been kind enough to present 
me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his 
serious poems, a vein of wit and humour in 
those of a more festive turn, which cannot be 
too much admired, nor too warmly approved; 
and I think 1 shall never open the book with ■ 
out feeling my astonishment renewed and 
increased. It was my wish to have expressed 
my approbation in verse ; but whether from 
declining life, or a temporary depression ol 
spirits, it is at present out of my power to 
accomplish that agreeable intention. 



Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
University, had formerly read me three of the 
poems, and I had desired him to get my name 
inserted among the subscribers ; but whethet 
this was done, or not, I never could learn. I 
have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will 
take care to have the poems communicated to 
him by the intervention of some mutual friend. 
It has been told me by a Gentleman, to whom 
I showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
whole impression is already exhausted. It 
were, therefore, much to be wished, for the 
sake of the young man, that a second edition, 
more numerous than the former, could 
immediately be printed : as it appears certain 
that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of the 
author's friends, might give it a more univer- 
sal circulation than any thing of the kind 
which has been published within my mem- 
ory.* 



No. VIII. 
FROM THE REVEREND MR. LOWRIE. 

22d December, 178G. 

DEAR SIR, 

I last week received a letter from Dr. 
Blacklock, in which he expresses a desire of 
seeing you, I write this to you, that you may 
lose no time in waiting upon him, should you 
not yet have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may 

* The reader will perceive that this is the letter which 
produced the determinati-on of our Bard to give up his 
scheme of going to the West Indies, and to try the fate of a 
new edition of his Poems in Edinburgh. A copy of this 
letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G. Hamilton, and by 
him communicated to Burns, among whose papers it w;is 
found. 

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his family, see the 
letter of Gilbert Burns to the Editor. 



9* 



tower still higher by the new publication. But, 
as a friend, I warn you to prepare to meet 
with your share of detraction and envy — a 
train that always accompany great men. 
For your comfort I am in great hopes that the 
number of your friends and admirers will in- 
crease, and that you have some chance of 
ministerial, or even ***** patronage. 
Now, my friend, such rapid success is very 
uncommon : and do you think yourself in no 
danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse? Remember Solomon's advice, which 
he spoke from experience, " stronger is he 
that conquers," &c. Keep fast hold of your 
rural simplicity and purity, like Telemachus, 
by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in 
that of Cyprus. I hope you have also Min- 
erva with you. I need not tell you how much 
a modest diffidence and invincible temperance 
adorn the most shining talents, and elevate the 
mind, and exalt and refine the imagination, 
even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report. I assure you I 
speak from love and good report, and good 
opinion, and a strong desire to see you shine 
as much in the sunshine as you have done in 
the shade ; and in the practice, as you do in 
the theory of virtue. This is my prayer, in 
return for your elegant composition in verse. 
All here join in compliments and good wishes 
for your further prosperity. __ 



No. IX. 
TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 27th Dec, 1786 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

1 confess I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude 
to friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but 
of all men living, 1 had intended to send you 
an entertaining letter; and by all the plod- 
ding stupid powers that in nodding conceited 
majesty preside over the dull routine of busi- 
ness — a heavily solemn oath this !— I am, and 
have been ever since I came to Edinburgh as 
unfit to write a letter of humour as to write a 
commentary on the Revelations. 



To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph you will have suf- 
fered, 1 enclose you two poems I have carded 
and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One 
blank in the address to Edinburgh, " Fair 
B ,"i£ the heavenly. Miss Burnet, daugh- 



LETTERS, 

ter to Lord Monboddo at whose house I have 
had the honour to be more than once. There 
has not been any thing nearly like her, in all 
the combinations of beauty, grace, and good- 
ness, the great Creator has formed, since Mil- 
ton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 



I have sent you a parcel of subscription- 
bills; and have written to Mr. Ballantyne 
and Mr- Aiken, to call on you for some ot 
them, if they want them. My direction is — 
care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge- 
street. 



No. X. 
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

MY LORD, 

As I have but slender pretensions to 
philosophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas 
of a citizen of the world ; but have all those 
national prejudices which, I believe, grow 
peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. 
There is scarcely any thing to which I am so 
feelingly alive ; as the honour and welfare 
of my country ; and, as a poet, I have no 
higher enjoyment than singing her sons and 
daughters. Fate had cast my station in the 
veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart 
pant more ardently than mine, to be disting- 
uished ; though till very lately, I looked in vain 
on every side for a ray of light. It is easy, 
then, to guess how much I was gratified with 
the countenance and approbation of one of my 
country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. 
Wauchope called on me yesterday on the 
part of your Lordship. Your munificence, my 
Lord, certainly deserves my very grateful ac- 
knowledgments ; but your patronage is a 
bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am 
not master enough of the etiquette of life, to 
know whether there be not some impropriety 
in troubling your Lordship with my thanks ; 
but my heart whispered me to do it. From the 
emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in- 
gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer- 
cenary servility, I trust I shall ever have so 
much honest pride as to detest. 

No. XI. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 

MADAM, 

, Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 



IiETTEHS. 

me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, tor 1 am miserably awkward at a 
fib ; I wished to have Written to Dr. Moore 
before 1 wrote to you ; but though, every day 
since I received yours of December 30th, the 
idea, the wish to write to him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for 
my soul set about it. I know his fame and 
character, and I am one of" the soijs of little 
men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact 
affair, like a merchant's order, would be dis- 
gracing the little character I have ; and to 
write the author of The mew of Society and 
Manners a letter of sentiment — I declare every 
artery runs eold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write to him to-morrow or next 
day. His kind interposition in my behalf I 
have already experienced, as a gentleman 
J waited on me the other day on the part of 
Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way of 
subscription for two copies of my next edition. 



95 



The word you object -to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ance^or, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judgment on your finding fault with it, and 
applied for the opinion of some of the literati 
here, who honour me with their critical stric- 
tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The 
song you ask I cannot recollect, and % have 
not a copy of it. I have not composed any 
thing on the great Wallace, except what you 
have seen in print, and the inclosed, which 
I will print in this edition.* You will see 
I have mentioned some others of the name. 
When I composed my Vision long ago, I at- 
tempted a description of Koyle, of which 
the additional stanzas are a part, as it ori- 
ginally stood. My heart glows with a 
wish to be able to do justice to the merits, of 
the Saviour of his Country, which, sooner or 
later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicate with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I 
know myself and the world too well. I do not 
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil- 
ling to believe that my abilities deserved some 
notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and po- 
lite observation, with all my imperfections of 

* Stanzas in the Vision, beginning " By stately tower 
or palace fair," and ending with the first Duan. E. 



awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas 
on my head— I assure you, Madam, I do not 
dissemble, when 1 tell you I tremble for the 
consequences. The novelty of a poet in my 
obscure situation, Without any of those advan- 
tages which are reckoned necessary for that 
character, at least at this time of day, has raised 
a partial tide of public notice, which has borne 
me to a height where I am absolutely, feeling, 
ly certain my abilities are inadequate to sup- 
port me ; and too surely do I see that time 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I 
do not say this in the ridiculous affectation 
of self-abasement and modesty. I have stud- 
ied myself, and know what ground I occupy ; 
and, however a friend or the world may differ 
from me in that particular, I stand for my own 
opinion in silent resolve, with all the tena- 
ciousness of property. I mention this to you, 
once for all, to disburden my mind, and I do 
not wish to hear or say more about it. — But 



« When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 

you will bear me witness, that, when my bub- 
ble of fame was at the highest, I stood, un- 
intoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my 
hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to 
the hastening time when the blow of Calumny 
should dash it to the ground, with all the 
eagerness of vengeful triumph. 



Your patronising me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, I re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you can or cannot aid me in my 
subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscrip- 
tion-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, 
compared withthe patronage of the descendant 
of the immortal Wallace ? 



No. XII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



1787. 



Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send 
me extracts of letters she has had from you, 
where you do the rustic bard the honour ot 
noticing him and his works. Those who 
have felt the anxieties and solicitude of 
authorship, can only know what pleasure it 
gives to be noticed in such a manner by judges 
of the first character. Your criticisms, Sir, I 
receive with reverence ; only 1 am sorry 



96 LETTERS. 

they mostly came to late: a peccant passage 
or two, that I would certainly have, altered, 
were gone to the press. 



The hope to be admired for ages is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who were 
authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. 
For my part, my first ambition was, and still 
my strougest wish is, to please my compeers, 
the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow 
me to be relished and understood. T am 
very willing to admit that I have some poeti- 
cal abilities : and as few, if any writers, 
either moral or political, are intimately ac- 
quainted with the classes of mankind among 
whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manners in a different phasis 
from what is common, which may assist origi- 
nality of thought. Still I know very well the 
novelty of my character has by far the great- 
est share in the learned and polite notice I 
have lately had ; and in a language where 
Pope -and Churchill have raised the laugh, 
and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear — 
where Thomson and Beattie have painted the 
landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins describ- 
ed the heart, 1 am not vain enough to hope for 
distinguished poetic fame. 



No. XIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford Street, January 23d, 1787. 

SIR, 
I have just received your letter, by which 
1 find I have reason to complain of my friend 
Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting to you extracts 
from my letters to her, by much too freely and 
too carelessly written for your perusal. I 
must forgive her, however, in consideration of 
her good intention, as you will forgive me, I 
hope, for the freedom I use with certain ex- 
pressions, in consideration of my admiration 
of the poems in general. If I may judge of 
the author's disposition from his works, with 
all the other good qualities of a poet, he haa 
not the irritable temper ascribed to that race 
of men by one of their own number, whom 
you have the happiness to resemble in ease 
and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the 
poetical beauties, however original and bril- 
liant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I 
admire in your works; the love of your na- 
tive country, that feeling sensibility to all the 
objects of humanity, and the independent 
spirit which breathes through the whole, give 
nu: a most favourable impression of the poet, 
and have made me often regret that ,1 did not 



see the poems, the certain effect of which 
would have been my seeing the author last 
summer, when I was longer in Scotland than 
I have been for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think- 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr. Blair, who I am informed interests him^ 
self very much for you. I beg to be remem- 
bered to him : nobody can have a warmer re- 
gard for that gentleman than I have, which, 
independent of the worth of his character, 
would be kept alive by the memory of our 
common friend, the late Mr. George B e. 

Before I received your letter, 1 sent in- 
closed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss 

Williams, a young poetical lady, which she 
wrote on reading your Mountain-daisy; per- 
haps it may not displease you.* 

I have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but find many of my ac- 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
only to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem and the most cordial good wishes, 
1 am, 

Your obedient, humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE REV. G. LOWRIE, OF NEW- 
MILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Edinburgh, 5th February, 1787. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

When I look at the date of your kind let- 
ter, my heart reproaches me severely with in- 
gratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I 
will not trouble you with any account, by way 
of apology, of my hurried life and distracted 
attention : do me the justice to believe that 
my delay by no means proceeded from want 
of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel, for you, 

* The sonnet is as follows : 

While soon " the garden's flaunting flow'rs" decay 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie, 
The " Mountain-daisy," cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah ! like that lonely flower the poet rose! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale : 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blowt, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nursed, 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 
Scoria ! from rude afflictions shield thy bard, 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will tuard. , 



LETTERS. 



97 



the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend, 
and reverence for a father. 



I thank you, Sir, with all my soul, for your 
friendly hints ; though I do not need them so 
much as my friends are apt to imagine. You 
are- dazzled with newspaper accounts and 
distant reports ; but in reality, I have no 
great temptation to be intoxicated with the 
cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the 
attention of mankind a while ; to it I owe my 
present eclat ; but I see the time not far dis- 
tant, when the popular tide, which has borne 
me to a height of which I am perhaps un- 
worthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and 
leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend 
at my leisure to my former station. I do not 
say this in the affectation of modesty ; I see 
the consequence is unavoidable, and am pre- 
pared for it. I had been at a good deal of 
pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers, before I came here ; I 
have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, 
any thing to the account ; and I trust I shall 
take every atom of it back to my shades, the 
coverts of my unnoticed, early years. 



In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 
I have found, what I would have expected 
in our friend, a clear head and an excellent 
heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend in 
Edinburgh must be placed to the account of 
Miss Lowrie and her piano-forte. I cannot 
help repeating to you and Mrs. Low r rie a com- 
pliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated 
" Man of Feeling/' paid to Miss Lowrie, the 
other night, at the concert. I had come in at 
the interlude, and sat down by him, till I 
saw Miss Lowrie in a seat not very far dis- 
tant, and went up to pay my respects to her. 
On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me 
who she was ; I told him 'twas the daughter 
of a reverend friend of mine in the west 
country. He returned, There was something 
very striking, to his idea, in her appearance. 
On my desiring to know what it was, he was 
pleased to say, s ' She has a great deal of 
the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, 
with all the sweet simplicity of a country- 
girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of 
Saint Margarets. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

ROBT. BURNS. 



No. XV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 15th February, 1T87. 



SIR, 



Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying 
so long to acknowledge the honour you have 
done me, in your kind notice of me, January 
23d. Not many months ago, i knew no other 
employment than following the plough, nor 
could boast any thing higher than a distant 
acquaintance with a country clergyman. 
Mere greatness never embarrasses me ; 1 have 
nothing to ask from the great, and I do not 
fear their judgment; but genius, polished by 
learning, and at its proper point of elevation 
in the eye of the world, this of late 1 fre- 
quently meet with, and tremble at its ap- 
proach. I scorn the affectation of seeming 
modesty to cover self-conceit. That 1 have 
some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, with 
frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
of my character, and the honest national pre- 
judice of my countrymen, have borne me 
to a height altogether untenable to my abili- 
ties. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, 
please, Sir, return her, in my name, my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once 
thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despond- 
ency. I had never before heard of her; but 
the other day 1 got her poems, which, for 
several reasons, some belonging to the head, 
and others the offspring of the heart, gave me 
a great deal of pleasure. 1 have little pre- 
tensions to critic lore : there are, I think, two 
characteristic features in her poetry — the un- 
fettered wild flight of native genius, and the 
querulous, sombre tenderness of time-settled 
sorrow. 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



No. XVI. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford Street, 28th February, 17b7. 

DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great 

deal of pleasure. It is not surprising that you 

improve in correctness and taste, considering 

where you have been for some time past. And 

() 



i~_ 



98 BETTERS 

I dare swear there is no danger of your ad- 
mitting any polish which might weaken the 
vigour of your native powers. 



I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own 
merit as a poet, an affectation which is dis- 
played with most ostentation by those who 
have the greatest share of self-conceit, and 
which only adds undeceiving falsehood to dis- 
gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit of 
your poems, would be arraigning the fixed 
opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of ray View of Society is 
not yet ready, 1 have sent you the former edi- 
tion, which I beg you will accept as a small 
mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea to the 
care of Mr. Creech ; and, along with these 
four volumes for yourself, I have also sent 
my Medical Sketches, in one volume, for my 
friend Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop : this you will 
be so obliging as to transmit, or, if you chance 
to pass soon by Dunlop, to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is 
so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of 
good fortune that befalls you, for you are a 
very great favourite in my family ; and this is 
a higher compliment than, perhaps, you are 
aware of. It includes almost all the profes- 
sions, and, of course, is a proof that your 
writings are adapted to various tastes and 
situations. My youngest son, who is at Win- 
chester School, writes to me that he is trans- 
lating some stanzas of your Hallow E'en into 
Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. 
This union of taste partly proceeds, no doubt, 
from the cement of Scotish partiality, with 
which they are all somewhat tinctured. Even 
your translator, who left Scotland too early in 
life for recollection, is not without it. 



I remain, with great sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XVII. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCA1RN. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

MY LORD, 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your 
Lordship, which I was told was to be got in 
town: but I am truly sorry to see that a 



blundering painter has spoiled a " human face 
divine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to 
have written below a picture or profile of your 
Lordship, could 1 have been so happy as to 
procure one with any thing of a likeness. 



As I will soon return to my shades, 1 
wanted to have something like a material 
object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it 
in my power to say to a friend, There is my 
noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow 
me, my Lord, to publish these verses. I con- 
jure your Lordship, by the honest throe of 
gratitude, by the generous wish of benevo- 
lence, by all the powers and feelings which 
compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny 
me this petition.* I owe much to your Lord- 
ship ; and, what has not in some other in- 
stances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I 
trust I have a heart as independent as your 
Lordship's, than which 1 can say nothing 
more: And I would not be beholden to fa- 
vours that would crucify my feelings. Your 
dignified character in life, and manner of sup- 
porting that character, are flattering to my 
pride ; and I would be jealous of the purity 
of my grateful attachment where I was under 
the patronage of one of the much-favoured 
sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his pa- 
trons, particularly when they were names 
dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; 
allow me, then, my Lord, if you think the 
verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world 
how much I have the honour to be, 
Your Lordship's highly indebted, 

and ever grateful, humble servant. 



No. XVIII. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LORD, 

The honour your Lordship has done me, 
by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st. 
instant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 



" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it m./st " 

Your Lordship touches the darling chord of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 

* It does not appear that the Earl granted this request, 
nor have the verses alluded to beeu found among the 
MSS. K 



LBTTERS. 



99 



at Scotish story and Scotish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely 
pilgrimage through my native country : to sit 
and muse on those once hard-contended fields 
where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody 
lion borne through broken ranks to victory 
and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to 
pour the deathless names in song. But, my 
Lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic 
reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking 
phantom strides across my imagination, and 
pronounces these emphatic words : 

" I wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend 
I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds 
of your follies and misfortunes, merely to 
give you pain : I wish through these wounds 
to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I 
will not mention how many of my salutary ad- 
vices you have despised : I have given you line 
upon line, and precept upon precept; and 
while I was chalking out to you the straight 
way to wealth and character, with audacious 
effrontery, you have zig-zagged across the 
path, contemning me to my face ; you know 
the consequences. It is not yet three months 
since home was so hot for you, that you were 
on the wing for the western shore of the At- 
lantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your 
misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts i1 
in your power to return to the situation of 
your forefathers, will you follow these Will- 
o'- Wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they 
bring you once more to the brink of ruin? I 
grant that the utmost ground you can occupy 
is but half a step from the veriest poverty ; 
but still it is half a step from it. If all that I 
can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom 
calls to you in vain, let the call of pride, pre- 
vail with you. You know how you feel at the 
iron grip of ruthless oppression : you know 
how you bear the galling sneer of contume- 
lious greatness. I hold you out the con- 
veniences, the comforts of life, independence 
and character, on the one hand ; I tender you 
servility, dependence, and wretchedness, on 
the other, I will not insult your understanding 
by bidding you make a choice/'* 

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I must 
return to my humble station, and woo my 
rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough- 
tail. 'Still, my Lord, while the drops of life 
warm my heart, gratitude to that dear loved 
country in which I boast my birth, and grati- 
tude to those her distinguished sons, who 

* Copied from the Bee, vol. ii. p, 319, and compared 
with.the Author^ MS. 



have honoured me so much with their patron, 
age and approbation, shall, while stealing 
through my humble shades, ever distend my 
bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the 
swelling tear. 



No. XIX. 

Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burne, to erect 
and keep up a Headstone in memory of Poet Fer- 
gusson, 1787. 



Session-house within the Kirk of Canon- 
gate, the twenty-second day of February, 
one thousand seven hundred and eighty- 
seven years. 

SEDERUNT OF THE MANAGERS OF THE KIRK AND 
KIRK-YARD FUNDS OF CANONGATE. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and o; which letter the tenor follows : 
" To the Honourable Bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be 
told, that the remains of Robert Fergusson, 
the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
talents, for ages to come, will do honour to our 
Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard, 
among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and un- 
known. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scotish Song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the • narrow house' of the bard 
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer- 
gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have 
the honour of paying. 

" I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to per- 
mit me to lay a simple stone over his revered 
ashes, to remain an unalienable property, to 
his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, 
Gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic 
sub&cribitur,) 

" Robert Burns.*' 

Thereafter the said managers, in consider- 
ation of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did and hereby do, unanimously, grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the 
same to his memory in all time coming. Ex- 
tracted forth of the records of the managers, 
by 

William Sprot, Clerk, 



100 



No. XX. 



To 



LETTERS. 

world. But I must not speak all I think of 
him, lest 1 should be thought partial. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am 
a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say — 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of 
a life my conscience has led me on that ac- 
count, your good heart would think yourself 
too much avenged.. By the bye, there is 
nothing in the whole frame of man which 
seems to me so unaccountable as that thing 
called conscience. Had the troublesome, yelp- 
ing cur powers efficient to prevent a mis- 
chief, he might be of use ; but at the begin- 
ning of the business, his feeble efforts are to 
the workings of passion as the infant frosts of 
an autumnal morning to the unclouded fer- 
vour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the 
tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences of 
folly in the very vortex of our horrors, up 
starts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- 
ings of the d*****. 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that if they merit a 
place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr. Sprot sent it me. 

The Inscription of the stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 
" By special grant of the Managers to Ro- 
bert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial 
place is to remain for ever sacred to the me- 
mory of Robert Fergusson. 



No. XXI. 

Extract of a Letter from . 

Hth March, 1787. 

I am truly happy to know that you have 
fottnd a friend in * * * * *; his patron- 
age of you does him great honour. He is 
truly a good man ; by far the best I ever 
knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in this 



So you have obtained liberty from the mag- 
istrates to erect a stone over Fergusson's 
grave? I do not doubt it; such things have 
been, as Shakspeare says, " in the olden 
time:" 

* The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's topj.b 
that this is written. But how many brothers 
of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor 
Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been 
served with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? 
O generous magistrates ! ****** * cele- 
brated over the three kingdoms for his public 
spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb 
to a poor poet's memory ! most generous ! 

* * * * once upon a time gave that same poet 
the mighty sum of eighteen-pence for a copy 
of his works. But then it must be considered 
that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- 
ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- 
ness of hunger ; and over and above, he re- 
ceived a * * * * worth, at least one 
third of the value, in exchange, but which, I 
believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully 
expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay 
will be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 

* * * * would take a snug well-aired bed- 
room for me, where I may have the pleasure 
of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. 
But, by all accounts, it will be a matter of 
some difficulty to see you at all, unless your 
company is bespoke a week before-hand. 
There is a great rumour here concerning your 

great intimacy with the Dutchess of , 

and other ladies of distinction. I am really 
told that " cards to invite fly by thousands 
each night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose 
there would also be " bribes to your old se- 
cretary." It seems you are resolved to make 
hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, 
the fate of poor Fergusson, ***** 
Qucerenda pecunia primum est, virtus post num- 
mos, is a good maxim to thrive by ; you seem- 
ed to despise it while in this country; but 
probably some philosopher in Edinburgh has 
taught you better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as 
printing?— Are you yet seized 

f With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays and wicked rhyme upoi.'t?" 



LETTERS 

But I must give up this trifling, and at- or venerable ruins, 
tend to matters that more concern myself; so, of her heroes, 
as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu drijly, we sal 
drink phan we meet.* 



101 
once me honoured abodes 



. No. XXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1T87. 

MADAM, 

1 read your letter with watery eyes. A 
little, very little while ago, / had scarce a 
friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; 
now I am distinguished, patronised, befriend- 
ed by you. Your friendly advices, I will not 
give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive 
with reverence. I have made some small 
alterations in what I before had printed. I 
have the advice of some very judicious friends 
among the literati here, but with them I some- 
times find it necessary to claim the privilege 
of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of 
Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any 
man, does me the honour of giving me his 
strictures; his hints, with respect to impro- 
priety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my "future 
views and prospects : there I can give you no 
light :— it is all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scotish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, 
is my most exalted ambition. Scotish scenes 
and Scotish story are the themes I could wish 
to sing. 1 have no dearer aim than to have it 
in my power, unplagued with the routine of 
business, for which, heaven knows ! I am 
unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages 
through Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her 
battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of 
her rivers ; and to muse by the stately towers 

* The above extract is from a letter of one of the ablest 
of our Poet's correspondents, which contains some inter, 
esting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we should have been 
happy to have inserted, if they could have been authenti- 
cated. The writer is mistaken in supposing the magis- 
trates of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction re- 
specting the monument erected for Fergusson by our bard ; 
this, it is evident, passed between Burns and the Kirk-Ses- 
sion of the Canongate. Neither at Edinburgh nor any 
where else, do magistrates usually trouble themselves to 
inquire how the house of a poor poet is furnished, or how 
his grave is adorned. E. 



But these are all Utopian thoughts ; I have 
dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be 
in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to 
care for; and some other bosom ties perhaps 
equally tender. 

Where the individual only suffers by the 
consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay> 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler 
virtues, may half-sanctify a heedless charac- 
ter : but where God and nature have intrusted 
the welfare of others to his care, where the 
trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man 
must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely 
lost to reflection, whom these connections will 
not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship : with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough; and, if I can meet 
with a lease by which I can live, to commence 
farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry : 
being bred to labour secures me independ- 
ence ; and the muses are my chief, sometimes 
have been my only employment. If my prac- 
tice second my resolution, I shall have princi- 
pally at heart the serious business of life ; but, 
while following my plough, or building up 
my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that 
dear, that only feature of my character, which 
gave me the notice of my country, and the 
patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native 
as they are in his own bosom. 



No. XXIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. 

MADAM, 

There is an affectation of gratitude which 
I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the 
pauses of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. 
For my part, Madam, 1 trust I have too much 
pride for servility, and too little prudence for 
selfishness. I have this moment broken open 
your letter, but 

" Rude am 1 in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself"— 



102 LETTERS. 

bo 1 shall not trouble you with any fine 
speeches and hunted figures. 1 shall just lay 
my hand on my heart, and say, I hope I shall 
ever have the truest, the warmest, sense of 
vour goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually at- 
tend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you 
(hat I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and 
Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of Com- 
missioner Cochrane in this place ; but that 
we can settle when I have the honour of wait« 
ing on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
MorniDg before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I received the books, and sent the one 
you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill- 
skilled in beating the coverts of imagination 
for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, 
for the honour you have done me ; and to my 
latest hour will warmly remember it. To be 
highly pleased with your book, is what I have 
in common with the world ; but to regard 
these volumes as a mark of the author's 
friendly esteem, is a still more supreme grati- 
fication. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and, after a few pilgrim- 
ages over some of the classic ground of Cale- 
donia, Cowden Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, 
Tweed, fyc. I shall return to my rural shades, 
in all likelihood never more to quit them. I 
have formed many intimacies and friendships 
here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender 
a construction to bear carriage a hundred and 
fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashion- 
able, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; 
and I am afraid my meteor appearance will 
by no means entitle me to a settled correspon- 
dence with any of you, who are the perma- 
nent lights of genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. If once this tangent flight of mine were 
over, and 1 were returned to my wonted lcis- 

• Adam Smith. 



urely motion in my old circle, I may probably 
endeavour to return her poetic compliment in 
kind. 



No. XXV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO MRS. 
DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. 
■ ■Your criticisms, Madam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to 
have pleased you better. You are right in 
your guess that I am not very amenable to 
counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so 
flattered those who possessed the adventitious 
qualities of wealth and power, that I am de- 
termined to flatter no created being either in 
prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, 
critics, &c. as all these respective gentry do 
by my hardship. I know what I may expect 
from the world by and by— illiberal abuse, 
and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

lam happy, Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your 
particular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal dis- 
pleasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to 
have the honour of appearing at Dunlop, in 
its defence, in person. 



No. XXVI. 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market, Edinburgh 3d May, 1787. 

REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTED SIR, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, 
but could not go without troubling you with 
half a line sincerely to thank you for the kind- 
ness, patronage, and friendship you have 
shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of 
my singular situation ; drawn forth from the 
veriest shades of life to the glare of remark ; 
and honoured by the notice of those illustrious 
names of my country, whose works, while 
they are applauded to the end of time, will 
ever instruct and mend the heart. However 
the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in 
the world might attract notice, and honour 
me with the acquaintance of the permanent 
lights of genius and literature, those who are 



LETTERS 

truly benefactors of the immortal nature of 
man ; I knew very well, that my utmost merit 
was far unequal to the task of preserving that 
character when once the novelty was over. I 
have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in my 
quarters. 



103 



I have sent you a proof impression of 
Beugo's work for me, done on Indian paper, 
as a trifling but sincere testimony with what 
heart-warm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XXVII. 
FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyll-Square, Edinburgh, 4th May, 

DEAR SIR. 

I was favoured this forenoon with your 
very obliging letter, together with an im- 
pression of your portrait, for which I return 
you my best thanks. The success you have 
met with I do not think was beyond your 
merits ; and if I have had any small hand in 
contributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. 
I know no way in which literary persons, 
who are advanced in years, can do more service 
to the world, than in forwarding the efforts of 
rising genius, or bringing forth unknown merit 
from obscurity. I Avas the first person who 
brought out to the notice of the world, the 
poems of Ossian : first, by the Fragments of 
Ancient Poetry which I published, and after- 
wards by my setting on foot the undertaking 
for collecting and publishing the Works of 
Ossian; and 1 have always considered this 
as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
singular ; and, in being brought out all at 
once from the shades of deepest privacy, to so 
great a share of public notice and observation, 
you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy 
that you have stood it so well ; and, as far as 
1 have known or heard, though in the midst 
of many temptations, without reproach to your 
character and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life ; and, I trust, will con- 
duct yourself there with industry, prudence, 
and honour. You have laid the foundation 
for just public esteem. In the midst of those 
employments, which your situation will ren- 
der proper, you will not, 1 hope, neglect to 
promote that esteem, by cultivating your 
genius, and attending to such productions of 



it as may raise your character still higher. 
At the same time, be not in too great a haste 
to come forward. Take time and leisure to 
improve and mature your talents ; fur on any- 
second production you give the world, your 
fate, as a poet, will very much depend. There 
is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty which time 
wears off. As you very properly hint your- 
self, you are not to be surprised if, in your 
rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- 
rounded with that glare of notice and ap- 
plause which here shone upon you. No man 
can be a good poet, without being somewhat 
of a philosopher. He must lay his account, 
that any one, who exposes himself to public 
observation, will occasionally meet with the 
attacks of illiberal censure, which it is always 
best to overlook and despise. He will be in- 
clined sometimes to court retreat, and to dis- 
appear from public view. He will not affect 
to shine always, that he may at proper seasons 
come forth with more advantage and energy. 
He will not think himself neglected if he be 
not always praised. I have taken the liberty, 
you see, of an old man, to give advice and 
make reflections which your own good sense 
will, I dare say, render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfries-shire, to look at some of Mr. 
Miller's farms. 1 heartily wish the offers to 
be made you there may answer ; as 1 am per- 
suaded you will not easily find a more gener- 
ous and better-hearted proprietor to live 
under, than Mr. Miller. When you return, 
if you come this way, I will be happy to see 
you, and to know concerning your future 
plans of life. You will find me, by the 22d of 
this month, not in my house in Argyle-square, 
but at a country-house at Restalrig, about a 
n?ile east from Edinburgh, near the Mussel- 
burgh road. Wishing you all success and 
prosperity, I am, with real regard and es- 
teem, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 
HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Cliford-Street, Maj/23, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after be sent me the new 



104 



LETTERS. 

certain you are capable of making a better 
use of it, when attained, than is generally 
done. 



edition of your poems. You seem to think it 
incumbent on you to send to each subscriber a 
number of copies proportionate to his sub- 
scription-money ; but, you may depend upon 
it, few subscribers expect more than one copy, 
whatever they subscribed. I must inform 
you, however, that I took twelve copies for 
those subscribers for whose money you were 
so accurate as to send me a receipt ; and Lord 
Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
for himself, as he wished to give five of them 
as presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are very beautiful, particularly the 
Winter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, 
Green grow the Rashes, and the two songs 
immediately following ; the latter of which is 
exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have 
a peculiar talent for such compositions, which 
you ought to indulge.* No kind of poetry 
demands more delicacy or higher polishing. 
Horace is more admired on account of his 
Odes than all his other writings. But nothing 
now added is equal to your Vision and Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night. In these are united fine 
imagery, natural and pathetic description, 
with sublimity of language and thought. It 
is evident that you already possess a great 
variety of expression and command of the 
English language, you ought, therefore, to 
deal more sparingly for the future in the pro- 
vincial dialect : — why should you, by using 
that, limit the number of your admirers to 
those who understand the Scotish, when you 
can extend it to all persons of taste who un- 
derstand the English language ? In my 
opinion you should plan some larger work 
than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, 
reflect upon some proper subject, and arrange 
the plan in your mind, without beginning to 
execute any part of it till you have studied 
most of the best English poets, and read a 
little more of history. The Greek and Ro- 
man stories you can read in some abridgment, 
and soon become master of the most brilliant 
facts, which must highly delight a poetical 
mind. You should also, and very soon may, 
become master of the heathen mythology, to 
which there are everlasting allusions in all 
the poets, and which in itself is charmingly 
fanciful. What will require to be studied 
with more attention, is modern history; that 
is, the history of France and Great Britain 
from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's 
reign. I know very well you have a mind 
capable of attaining knowledge by a shorter I have just time to write the foregoing,* 

process than is commonly used, and I am and to tell you that it was (at least most part 



I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me when it is inconvenient, and 
make no apology when you do write for 
having postponed it ; be assured of this, how- 
ever, that E shall always be happy to hear 

from you. I think my friend, Mr. told 

me that you had some poems in manuscript by 
you, of a satirical and humorous nature (in 
which, by the way, I think you very strong,) 
which your prudent friends prevailed on you 
to omit ; particularly one called Somebody's 
Confession; if you will intrust me with a sight 
of any of these, 1 will pawn my word to give 
no copies, and will be obliged to you for a 
perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation; this, I 
hope, will not prevent your making occasional 
addresses to the nine ladies who have shown 
you such favour, one of whom visited you in 
the auld clay biggin. Virgil, before you, proved 
to the world that there is nothing in the 
business of husbandry inimical to poetry ; and 
I sincerely hope that you may afford an ex- 
ample of a good poet being a successful farm- 
er. I fear it will not be in my power to visit 
Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeav- 
our to find you out, for I heartily wish to see 
and converse with you. If ever your occa- 
sions call you to this place, I make no doubt 
of your paying me a visit, and you may de- 
pend on a very cordial welcome from this 
family. 

1 am, Dear Sir, 
Your friend and obedient servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 



TO MR. WALKER, 



BLAIR OP ATHOLE. 



Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



* The Poems subsequently composed will bear testi- 
mony to the accuracy of Dr. Moore's judgment. E. 



* The Humble Petition of Bruar- Water to the Duke 
of Athole. See Pocmt, p. 72 



of it,) the effusion of a half-hour I spent at 
Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I 
have endeavoured to brush it up as well as 

Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the 

chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a 
good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a 
poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. 
What I owe to the noble family of Athole, of 
the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast; 
what I owe of the last, so help me God in my 
hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The " little angel band !" I declare I prayed 
for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly 
noble Dutchess, with her smiling little seraph 
in her lap, at the head of the table ; the love- 
ly " olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely 
says, round the happy mother ; the beautiful 

Mrs. G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I 

wish I had the powers of Guido to do them 
justice. My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — 
markedly kind indeed ! Mr. G. of F— 's charms 

of conversation — Sir W. M 's friendship. 

In short, the recollection of all that polite, 
agreeable company, raises an honest glow in 
my bosom. 



No. XXX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 17th Sept. 1787. 

! MY DEAR BROTHER, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, 
after a tour of twenty-two days, and travel- 
ling near six hundred miles, windings in- 
cluded. My farthest stretch was about ten 
miles beyond Inverness. I went through 
the heart of the Highlands, by Crieff, Tay- 
mouth, the famous seat of the Lord Bread- 
albane, down the Tay, among cascades and 
Druidical circles of stones, to Dunkeld, a seat 
of the Duke of A thole ; thence cross Tay, and 
up one of his tributary streams to Blair of 
Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where 1 
had the honour of spending nearly two days 
with his Grace and family; thence many 
miles through a wild country, among cliffs 
gray with eternal snows, and gloomy savage 
glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the 
stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scotish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached 



LETTERS. 1 05 

Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; 
there I saw the identical bed in which, tra- 
dition says, King Duncan was murdered ; 
lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 



I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen; thence to 
Stonehive, where James Burness, from Mon- 
trose, met me, by appointment. 1 spent two 
days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale 
old women. John Caird, though born the 
same year with our father, walks as vigorously 
as I can ; they have had several letters from 
his son in New York. William Brand is like- 
wise a stout old fellow ; but further particu- 
lars 1 delay till I see you, which will be in 
two or three weeks. The rest of my stages 
are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was 
from Ossian's country, where I had seen his 
very grave, what cared I for fishing towns or 
fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodie of 
Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon 
Castle next day with the Duke, Dutchess, and 
family. I am thinking to cause my old mare 
to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glas- 
gow : but you shall hear farther from me be- 
fore I leave Edinburgh. My duty, and many 
compliments, from the north, to my mother, 
and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I 
have been trying for a birth for William, but 
am not likely to be successful.— Farewell ! 



No. XXXI. 



FROM MR. R*****. 

Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

SIR, 

'Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Ed- 
mondstoune's answer, that neither the words 
ot Down the Burn Davie, nor Dainiie Davie, 
(I forgot which you mentioned,) were written 
by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet 
him, I will inquire about his cousin's poetical 
talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
and a letter to Mr. Young, whose company 
and musical talents will, I am persuaded, be 
P 



106 
a feast to you.* Nobody can give you better 
hints, as to your present plan than he. Re- 
ceive also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to 
make such a deep impression on your ima- 
gination, that I am not without hopes it will 
beget something to delight the public in due 
time : and, no doubt, the circumstances of this 
little tale might be varied or extended, so as 
to make part of a pastoral comedy. Age or 

* These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, are as 
follows : 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 

FOR THE SALICTUM* AT OCHTERTYRE. 

Salubritatis voluptatisque causa, 

Hoc Salictura, 

Paludem olira infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepituque, 

Innocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor. 

Hie, si faxit Deus opt. max. 

Prope nunc fontem pellucidum, 

Cum quodam j u ventutis amico superstite, 

Saepe conquiescam, senex, 

Contentus rnodicis, meoque leetus! 

Sin aliter— 

iEvique paululum supersit, 

Vos silvulae, et amici, 

Caeteraque amoena, 

Valete, diuque laetamini ! 

ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

I drain and decorate this plantation of willows, 

Which was lately *n unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 

•STow fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest in the evening of life, 

Near that transparent fountain, 

With some surviving friend of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 
If vain these humble wishes, 
And life draws near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, 
And whatever else is dear, 
. Farewell ! and long may ye flourish ! 



AUOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Mihi meisque utinam contingat 

Prope Taichi marginem, 

Avito in Agello, 

Bene vivere fausteque mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope ! 



• Salictum— Grove of Willows, Willow -ground. 

These inscriptions, and the translations, are in the hand 
writing of Mr. Ramsay. 



LETTERS. 

wounds might have kept Omeron at home, 
whilst his countrymen were in the field. Kis 
station may be somewhat varied, withcrut 
losing his simplicity and kindness. * * * 
A group of characters, male and female, con- 
nected with the plot, might be formed from 
his family, or some neighbouring one of rank. 
It is not indispensable that the guest should 
be a man of high station ; nor is the political 
quarrel in which he is engaged, of much im- 
portance, unless to call forth the exercise of 
generosity and faithfulness, grafted on patri- 
archal hospitality. To introduce state-affairs, 
would raise the style above comedy; though 
a small spice of them would season the con- 
verse of swains. Upon this head I cannot say 
more than to recommend the study of the 
character of Eumaeus in the Odyssey, which, 
in Mr. Pope's- translation, is an exquisite 
and invaluable drawing from nature, that 
would suit some of our country Elders of the 
present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once 
thought of a plot and brought the story into 
form, Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your 
leisure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which 
is natural without being low ; and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country-people, 
in these situations, speak every day. You 
have only to bring down your strain a very 
little. A great plan, such as this, would 
concentre ail your ideas, which facilitates 
the execution, and makes it a part of one's 
pleasure. 



I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate 
size, sufficient to find exercise for mind and 
body, but not so great as to absorb better 
things. And if some intellectual pursuit be 
well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be 
more lucrative than most farms, in this age of 
rapid improvement. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step further. Let 
those bright talents, which the Almighty has 
bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 



» Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. E. 



LETTERS. 



107 



truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many 
different modes : nor is it necessary to be al- 
ways serious, which you have to good pur- 
pose ; good morals may be recommended in a 
comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances 
are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; 
—and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of 
never having written a line, which, dying, 
they would wish to blot. In particular I wish 
you to keep clear of the thorny walks of sa- 
tire, which makes a man a hundred enemies 
for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when 
one is supposed to extend the slips and weak- 
nesses of individuals to their sect or party. 
About modes of faith, serious and excellent 
men have always differed ; and there are cer- 
tain curious questions, which may afford 
scope to men of metaphysical heads, but sel- 
dom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these 
points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- 
cient that all our sects concur in their views 
of morals. You will forgive me for these 
hints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady Clack- 
mannan?* It is a pity she is so deaf, and 
speaks so indistinctly. Her house is a speci- 
men of the mansions of our gentry of the last 
age, when hospitality and elevation of mind 
were conspicuous amidst plain fare and plain 
furniture. I shall be glad to hear from you at 
times, if it were no more than to show that 
you take the effusions of an obscure man like 
me in good part. I beg my best respects to 
Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock.f 
And am, Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 

* Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan. E. 
+ TALE OF OMEK'ON CAMERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland and 
the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar (a 
distinguished character in the fifteenth century,) and 
Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the command ol 
the royal army. They marched into Lochaber, with 
a view of attacking a body of the M'Donalds, commanded 
by Donald Balloch, and posted upon an arm of the sea 
which intersects that country. Having timely intelligence 
of their approach, the insurgents got off precipitately to 
the opposite shore in their curragks, or boats covered with 
skins. The king's trocps encamped in full security ; but 
the M'Donald's, returning about midnight, surprised 

hem, killed the Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dis- 

ersed the whole army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any at- 
tendants, and made for the more hilly part of the coun- 
try. In the course of his flight he came to the house of 
a poor man, whose name was Omeron Cameron. The 
landlord welcomed his guest with the utmoct kindness j 



No. XXXII. 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 

TO THB 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1717. 

DEAR SIR, 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, have given you much pleas- 
ure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
not, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- 

but, as there was no meat in the house, he told,his wife he 
would directly kill Maol Odharjt to feed the stranger. 
" Kill our only cow !" said she, l{ our own and our little 
children'e principal support!" More attentive, however, 
to the present call for hospitality, than to the remonstran- 
ces of his wife, or the future exigencies of his family, he 
killed the cow. The best and tenderest parts were im- 
mediately roasted before the fire, and plenty of innirich, 
or Highland soup, prepared to conclude their meal. The 
whole family, and their guest ate heartily, and the even- 
ing was spent, as usual, in telling tales and singing songs 
beside a cheerful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron brushed 
the hearth, spread the cow-hide upon it, and desired the 
stranger to lie down. The Earl wrapped his plaid about 
him, and slept soundly on the hide, whilst the family be- 
took themselves to rest in a corner of the same room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at his 
departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew whom he 
had entertained ? " You may probably," answered he, 
"be one of the king's officers ; but whoever you are, you 
came here in distress, and here it was my duty to protect 
you. To what my cottage afforded you was most wel- 
come." — " Your guest, then," replied the other, " is the 
Earl of Mar j and if hereafter you fall into any misfor- 
tune, fail not to come to the castle of Kildrummie."— 
" My blessing be with you ! noble stranger," said Ome- 
ron j "If I am ever in distress you shall soon see 
me." 

The Royal army was soon after re-assembleo, and the 
insurgents finding themselves unable to roakfc head 
against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got no- 
tice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and forced him 
to fly the country. He came with his wife and children 
to the gate of Kildrummie castle, and required admittance 
with a confidence which hardly corresponded with his 
habit and appearance. The porter told him rudely, his 
lordship was at dinner, and must not be disturbed. He be- 
came noisy and importunate : at last his name wa* an- 
nounced. Upon hearing that it was Omeron Cameron* 
the Earl started from his seat, and is said to have e* 
claimed in a sort of poetical stanza, " I was a night in his 
house, and fared most plentifully ; but naked of clothet 
was my bed. Omeron from Breugach is an excellent 
fellow." He was introduced into the great hall, and re- 
ceived with the welcome he deserved. Upon hearing now 
he had been treated, the Earl gave him a four ir.erk land 
near the castle j and it is said there are still a number of 
Camerons descended of this Highland Eumauis. 

• Maol Odhar, i. t. The brown, hummil cow 



108 
land Luinags or songs played, which delighted 
him so much that he has made words to one 
or two of them, which will render these more 
popular. As he has thought of being in your 
quarter, I am persuaded you will not think 
it labour lost to indulge the poet of nature 
with a sample of those sweet, artless melodies, 
which only want to be married (in Milton's 
phrase) to congenial words. I wish we could 
conjure up the ghost of Joseph M' D. to in- 
fuse into our bard a portion of his enthusiasm 
for those neglected airs, which do not suit the 
fastidious musicians of the persent hour. But 
if it be true that Corelli (whom I looked on 
as the Homer of music) is out of date, it is no 
proof of their taste ; — this, however, is going 
out of my province. You can show Mr. 
Burns the manner of singing these same Luin- 
ags; and, if he can humour it in words, I do 
not despair of seing one of them sung upon 
the stage, in the original style, round a nap- 
kin. 



LETTERS. 

You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see 
him, that Colonel Edmondstoune told me 
t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George 
Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of 
songs ; but that his eldest brother Robert (by 
a former marriage) had a great turn that way, 
having written the words of The Bush aboon 
Traquair and Tweedside. That the Mary to 
whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart, 
of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of 
Mr. John Relches. The Colonel never saw 
Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial 
fifty-five years ago. Be was a pretty young 
man, and had lived long in France. Lady 
Ankerville is his niece, and may know more 
of his poetical \ein. An epitaph-monger like 
me might moralize upon the vanity of life, and 
the vanity of those sweet effusions. But I 
have hardly room to offer my best compli- 
ments to Mrs. Blacklock, and am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, 
that one has so few opportunities of cultivat- 
ing acquaintances at a distance. I hope, 
however, some time or other to have the pleas- 
ure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, 
and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; 
meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs. 
Boog and Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does 
not dread the frowns of his diocesan. 
I am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant. 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 

FROM MR. RAMSAY 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ochtertyre y October 27, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I received yours by Mr. Burns, and give 
you many thanks for giving me an opportunity 
of conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you know what passed 
between us on the subject of my hints, to 
which I have made additions in a letter I 
sent hirn t'other day to your care. 



No. XXXIV. 
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 28th October, 1787. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

As my friend, Mr. Brown is going from 
this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace 
the opportunity of telling you that I am yet 
alive, tolerably well, and always in expecta- 
tion of being better. By the much-valued 
letters before me, I see that it was my duty to 
have given you this intelligence about three 
years and nine months ago : and have nothing 
to allege as an excuse, but that we poor, busy, 
bustling bodies in London, are so much taken 
up with the various pursuits in which we are 
here engaged, that we seldom think of any 
person, creature, place, or thing, that is ab- 
sent. But this is not altogether the case with 
me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie and 
Russel, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan 
brunstane, all in the same minute, although 
you and they^are (as I suppose) at a consider- 
able distance. I flatter myself, however, with 
the pleasing thought, that you and I shall 
meet sometime or other either in Scotland or 
England. If ever you come hither, you will 
have the satisfaction of seeing your poems 
relished by the Caledonians in London, full 
as much as they can be by those of Edinburgh. 
We frequently repeat some of your verses in 
our Caledonian society ; and you may be- 
lieve, that I am not a little vain that I have 
had some share in cultivating such a genius. 






LETTERS. 



109 



I was not absolutely certain that you were the 
author, till a few days ago, when I made a 
visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. M'Coinb's eldest 
daughter, who lives in town, and who told 
me that she was informed of it by a letter 
from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom you 
had been in company when in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? It 
would afford matter for a large poem. Here 
you would have an opportunity of indulging 
your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to 
a greater degree than in any city upon the 
face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of Lon- 
don, as you know, are a collection of all na- 
tions, kindreds* and tongues, who make it, as 
it were, the centre of their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those prin- 
ciples and dispositions that the best of parents 
took such uncommon pains to instil into your 
minds from your earliest infancy ! May you 
live as he did ! if you do, you can never be 
unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at 
once, and affected in a manner I cannot de- 
scribe. I shall only add, that it is one of the 
greatest pleasures I promise myself before I 
die, that of seeing the family of a man whose 
memory I revere more than that of any per- 
son that ever I was acquainted with. 
I am, my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



XXXV. 

FROM MR. - 



Gordon Castle, Slst October, 1787. 



SIR, 



If you were not sensible of your fault as 
well as of your loss in leaving this place so 
suddeuly, I should condemn you to starve 
upon cauld kail for ae towmont at least ! and as 
for Dick Latine,* your travelling companion, 
without banning him wi' a' the curses con- 
tained in your letter (which he'll no value a 
bawbee,) I , should give him nought but Stra'bo- 
gie casiocks to chew for sax ouks, or ay until 
he was as sensible of his error as you seem to 
be of yours. 

* » * « 

Mr. Nicol. 



Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Dutchess to 
be the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a 
copy of it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. 
M'Pherson in Badenoch, who sings Morag 
and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. 
1 have recorded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's 
desire, in a book belonging to her ladyship, 
where it is in company with a great many 
other poems and verses, some of the writers of 
which are no less eminent for their political 
than for their poetical, abilities. When the 
Dutchess was informed that you weie the 
author, she wished you had written the verses 
in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's 
cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, as 
long as the Duke is in this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXVI. 

FROM THE 
REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, lith November, 1787. 



Your kind return without date, but of post- 
mark October 25th, came to my hand only 
this day ; and, to testify my punctuality to my 
poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to 
answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of 
my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- 
ing genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. 
The difference between our two tracks of 
education and ways of life is entirely in your 
favour, and gives you the preference every 
manner of way. I know a classical education 
will not create a versifying taste, but it migh- 
tily improves and assists it ; and though, where 
both these meet, there may sometimes be 
ground for approbation, yet where taste ap- 
pears single as it were, and neither cramped 
nor supported by acquisition, I will always sus- 
tain the justice of its prior claim of applause. 
A small portion of taste, this way, I have 
had almost from childhood, especially in the 
old Scotish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as 
I remember, my fondness for Christ-kirk o' the 
Green, which I had by heart ere I was twelve 
years of age, and which, some years ago, I 
attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these 
tilings ; but, on getting the black gown, I gave 



110 

it pretty much over, till my daughters grew 
up, who, being all good singers, plagued me 
for words to some of their favourite tunes, and 
so extorted these effusions, which have made 
a public appearance beyond my expectations, 
and contrary to my intentions, at the same 
time that I hope there is nothing to be found 
in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the 
cloth which I would always wish to see re- 
spected. 



As to the assistance you purpose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in,* I am 
sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, 
and you perhaps expect. My daughters, who 
were my only intelligencers, are all foris-fam- 
iliate, and the old woman their mother has lost 
that taste. There are two from my own pen, 
which I might give you, if worth the while* 
One to the old Scotch tune of Dumbarton's 
Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
your noble friend the Dutchess has, I am told, 
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to ac- 
commodate a new Highland reel for the 
Marquis's birth-day, to the stanza of 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. James 
Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing I have 
heard, said to b3 done by the Catholic priest 
CJeddes, and. which hit my taste much : 

« There was a wee wifeilue, was coming frae the fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie which bred her meikle care, 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou, 

I W6h, §c. $c. 

I have heard of another new composition, 
by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, 
that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of 
The Humours of Glen, which I fear wont do, 
as the music, I am told, is of Irish original. I 
have mentioned these, such as they are, to 
show my readiness to oblige you, and to con- 
tribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic 
work you have in hand, and which 1 wish 
all success to. You have only to notify your 
mind, and what you want of the above shall 
be sent ^ou. 

• A p'an of publishing a complete collection of Scotish 

Songs, SiS}, 



LETTERS. 

Mean time, while you are thus publicly I 
may say employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
and morality delivered in your amusing style, 
and from such as you, will operate more 
than dozens would do from such as me, who 
shall be told it is our employment, and be 
never more minded : whereas, from a pen 
like yours, as being one of the many, what 
comes will be admired. Admiration will pro- 
duce regard, and regard will leave an impres- 
sion, especially when example goes along. 



Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad, 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said, 

And sic like fry, 
Maun ay be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all success, 
and, in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 
JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XXXVII. 
FROM MRS. ROSE. 

Kilravock Castle, 30th November, 1787. 



I hope you will do, me the justice to be- 
lieve, that it was no defect in gratitude for 
your punctual performance of your parting 
promise, that has made me so long in acknow- 
ledging it, but merely the difficulty I had in 
getting the Highland songs you wished to 
have, accurately noted ; they are at last en- 
closed ; but how shall I convey along with 
them those graces they acquired from the me- 
lodious voice of one of the fair spirits of the 
hill of Kildrummie ! These I must leave to 
your imagination to supply. It has powers 
sufficient to transport you to her side, to recafi 
her accents, and to make them still vibrate in 
the ears of memory. To her I am indebted 
for getting the enclosed notes. They are 
clothed with " thoughts that .breathe, and 
word's that burn." These, however, being in an 
unknown tongue to you, you must again have 
recourse to that same fertile imagination of 
yours to interpret them, and suppose a lover's 
description of the beauties of an adored mis- 
tress — Why did I say unknown? the language 
of love is a universal one, that seems to have 



LETTERS. 



Ill 



escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- 
derstood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places, in your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope you 
may be induced to revisit them again. That 
the old castle of Kilravock, and its inhabi- 
tants were amongst these, adds to my satis- 
action. I am even vain enough to admit 
your very flattering application of the line of 
Addison's ; at any rate, allow me to believe, 
that " friendship will maintain the ground 
she has oceupiefl in both our hearts," in spite 
of absence, and that when we do meet, it will 
be as acquaintance of a score years' standing ; 
and on this footing consider me as interested 
in the future course of your fame so splendidly 
commenced. Any communications of the 
progress of your muse will be received with 
great gratitude, and the fire of your genius 
will have power to warm even us, frozen sis- 
ters of the north. 

The fire-sides of Kilravock and Kildrummie 
unite in cordial regards to you. When you 
incline to figure either in your idea, suppose 
some of us reading your poems, and some of 
us singing your songs, and my little Hugh 
looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be 
wrong. We remember Mr. Nicol with as 
much good will as we can do any body who 
hurried Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, Sir: I can only contribute the 
widow's mite, to the esteem and admiration ex- 
cited by your merits and genius ; but this I 
give, as she did, with all my heart— being 
sincerely yours. 

EL. ROSE. 



No. XXXVIII. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY LORD, 

I know your Lordship will disapprove of 
my ideas in a request I am going to make to 
you, but I have weighed, long and seriously 
weighed, my situation, my hopes, and turn of 
mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme, if I 
can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into 
the Excise ; I am told that your Lordship's 
interest will easily procure me the grant from 
the Commissioners ; and your Lordship's pa- 
tronage and goodness, which have already 
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and 
exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You 



have likewise put it in my power to save the 
little tie of home that sheltered an aged 
mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from 
destruction. There, my Lord, you have bound 
me over to the highest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease ; 
but I think he will probably weather out the 
remaining seven years of it ; and, after the 
assistance which I have given, and will give 
him, to keep the family together, I think, by 
my guess, I shall have rather better than two 
hundred pounds, and instead of seeking what 
is almost impossible at present to find, a farm 
that 1 can certainly live by, with so small a 
stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking- 
house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the 
calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old 
age ; * * * * 

These, My Lord, are my views ; I have re- 
solved from the maturest deliberation ; and 
now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned 
to carry my resolve into execution. Your 
Lordship's patronage is the strength of my 
hopes ; nor have I yet applied to any body 
else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at 
the idea of applying to any other of the Great 
who have honoured me with their countenance. 
I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness 
with the impertinence of solicitation, and 
tremble nearly as much at the thought of the 
cold promise, as the cold denial : but to your 
Lordship I have not only the honour, the 
comfort, but the pleasure of being 

Your Lordship's much obliged, 
And deeply indebted humble servant. 



TO 



No. XXXIX. 
— DALRYMPLE, Esq. 

OF ORANGEFIELD. 



Edinburgh, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

1 suppose the devil is so elated with his 
success with you, that he is determined, by a 
coup de main, to complete his purposes on you 
all at once, in making you a poet. 1 broke 
open the letter you sent me : hummed over the 
rhymes ; and, as I saw they were extempore, 
said to myself, they w ere very well ; but 
when I saw at the bottom a name I shall ever 
value with grateful respect, " 1 gapit wide 
but naething spak." I was nearly as much 
struck as the friends of Job, of aflliction-bear- 



112 



LETTERS. 



ing memory, when they sat down with him 
seven days and seven nights, and spake not a 
word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination re- 
gained its consciousness, and resumed its 
functions, I cast about what this mania of 
yours might portend. My foreboding ideas 
had the wide stretch of possibility ; and sev- 
eral events, great in their magnitude, and 
important in their consequences, occurred to 
my fancy. The downfal of the conclave, or 
the crushing of the cork rumps ; a ducal 

coronet to Lord George G , and the pro- 

testant interest, or St. Peter's keys, to * * * * 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
with my Latin, in " auld use and wont." The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand 
to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent Being 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. Ai. best, they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one 
of them strongly tinged with bituminous par- 
ticles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble 
patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magna- 
nimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, 
shall look on with princely eye at " the war 
of elements, the wreck of matter, and the 
crush of worlds/' 



No. XL. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

December. 1787. 



Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very 
warm and worthy friend, has informed me 
how much you are pleased to interest yourself 
in my fate as a man, and (what to me is in- 
comparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I 
have, Sir, in one or two instances, been pa- 
tronised by those of your character in life, 
when I was introduced to their notice by * * 
* * * * friends to them, and honoured ac- 
quaintance to me ; but you are the first gentle- 



man in the country whose benevolence and 
goodness of heart have interested him for me, 
unsolicited and unknown. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of these matters to 
know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether 
formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallow- 
ed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am 
convinced, from the light in which you kindly 
view me, that you will do me the justice to 
believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the 
needy, sharping author, fastening on those in 
upper life who honour him with a little 
notice of him or his works. Indeed, the si- 
tuation of poets is generally such, to a pro- 
verb, as may, in some measure, palliate that 
prostitution of heart and talents they have at 
times been guilty of. I do not think prodi- 
gality is, by any means, a necessary concomi- 
tant of a poetic turn ; but I believe a careless, 
indolent inattention to economy, is almost 
inseparable from it ; then there must be, in 
the heart of every bard of Nature's making, 
a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a 
kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of 
the way of those windfalls of fortune, which 
frequently light on hardy impudence and foot- 
licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a 
more helpless state than his, whose poetic 
fancy unfits him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar gives him some preten- 
sions to the politesse of life — yet is as poor as I 
am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder; learning never elevated my 
ideas above the peasant's shade, and I have 
an independent fortune at the plough-tail. 



I was surprised to hear that any one who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as 
to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one 
as I am ; and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to 
meddle with that late most unfortunate, un- 
happy part of my story. With a tear of 
gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth 
with which you interposed in behalf of my 
conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but 
reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow 
creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. 1 
have no return, Sir, to make you for your 
goodness, but one — a return which, 1 am per- 
suaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your 
happiness, and every one of that lovely flock 
who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever 
Calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may 
friendship be by to ward the blow ! 




LETTERS. 



113 



No. XLL 



To MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 21st January, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- 
ning to walk across the room. They have 
been six horrible weeks, anguish and low 
spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
mission ; for I would not take in any poor? 
ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I 
was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
miserable soldier enough: now I march to 
the campaign, a starving cadet ; a little more 
conspicuously wretched. 

1 am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as 
much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or 
conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, 1 leave Edinburgh, and soon after I 
bhall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 



No. XLII. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 12th February, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me : 
not that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have indeed been the 
luckless victim of wayward follies : but, alas ; 
I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion is a pro- 
bable character; an irreligious poet is a mon- 
ster. 



No. XLIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel, 7th March, 1788. 

MADAM, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th 
February affected me most, so I shall begin 



my answer where you ended your letter. 
That I am often a sinner with any little wit I 
have, I do confess : but I have taxed my re- 
collection to no purpose to find out when it 
was employed against you. I hate an un- 
generous sarcasm a great deal worse than I 
do the devil ; at least, as Milton describes 
him; and though I may be rascally enough 
to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot 
endure it in others. You, my honoured 
friend, who cannot appear in any light but you 
are sure of being respectable — you can afford 
to pass by an occasion to display your wit, be- 
cause you may depend for fame on your sense ; 
or, if you choose to be silent, you know you 
can rely on the gratitude of many and the es- 
teem of all ; but, God help us who are wits or 
witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila.* 1 may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honour, as Br. Beattie says 
to Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from 
which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila : 
( 7 Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, 
which perhaps you have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi* buffe and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pe^s, 

Waes me, poor hizzie !" 



No. XLIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, Zlst March, 1788. 
Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being 
Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
hymns, and spiritual songs : and your favour, 
ite air Captain Okean, coming at length in my 
head, I tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be re« 
peated.f 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses ; 
but, as I have only a sketch of the tune, 1 
leave it with you to try if they suit the measure 
of the music. 

* A lady (daughter of Mrs. Dunlop) was making a pic- 
ture from the description of Coila in the Vision. E. 

f Here the Bard gives the first stanza of the " Cheva- 
lier's Lament." 

Q 



114, LETTERS. 

1 am so harassed with care and anxiety 
about this farming project of mine, that my 
inuse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders or followed a 
tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine 
of business, I shall trouble you with a longer 
epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting 
farming ; at present the world sits such a load 
on my mind, that it has effaced almost every 
trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes 
to Mrs. Cleghorn. 



No. XLV. 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Saughton Mills, 27th April, 17881 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter 
of the 31st ult, and consider myself greatly 
obliged to you for your attention in sending 
me the song* to my favourite air, Captain 
Okean. The words delight me much, they fit 
the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me 
a verse or two more : and if you have no ob- 
jection, I would have it in the Jacobite style. 
Suppose it should be sung after the fatal field 
of Cullodenby the unfortunate Charles. Ten- 
ducci personates the lovely Mary Stuart in 
the song, Queen Mary's Lamentation. Why 
may not I sing in the person of her great-great- 
great-grandson ?t 

Any skill I have in country business you 
may truly command. Situation, soil, customs 
of countries, may vary from each other, but 
Farmer Attention is a good farmer in every 
place. I beg to hear from you soon. Mrs. 
Cleghorn joins me in best compliments. 

1 am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
the word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVI. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. 

MADAM, 

Your powers of reprehension must be 
^reat indeed, as I assure you they made my 

• The Chevalier's Lament. 

f Our Poet took this advice. The whole of this beauti- 
ful song, as it was afterwards finished, ^inserted jnthe 
Poems, p. 79 ' 



heart ache with penitential pangs, even 
though I was really not guilty. As I com- 
mence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily 
guess I must be pretty busy.! but that is not 
all. As I got the offer of the excise-busintss 
without solicitation ; and as it costs me only 
six months' attendance for instructions to 
entitle me to a commission, which commission 
lies by me, and at any future period, on my 
simple petition, can be resumed: I thought 
five-and thirty pounds a-year was no bad 
dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune, in her 
jade tricks, should kick him down from the 
little eminence to which she has lately helped 
him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I pre- 
pared, with the sincerest pleasure, to meet 
you at the Mount, and came to my brother's 
on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but 
for some nights preceding, I had slept in an 
apartment where the force of the winds and 
rains was only mitigated by being sifted 
through numberless apertures in the win- 
dows, walls, &c. In consequence, I was on 
Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, 
unable to stir out of bed, with all the misera- 
ble effects of a violent cold. 

You see, Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vrai-sembla- 
ble. Your last was so full of expostulation, 
and was something so like the language of an 
offended friend, that I began to tremble for a 
correspondence which 1 had with grateful 
pleasure set down as one of the greatest en- 
joyments of my future life. 



Your books have delighted me : Virgil, 
Dryden, and Tasso, were all equally stran- 
gers to me : but of this more at large in my 
next. 

No. XLVII. 
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, 28th April, 1788. 

DEAR SIR, 

I received your last with the curious 
present you have favoured me with, and would 
have made proper acknowledgments before 
now, but that I have beei. necessarily engaged 
in matters of a different complexion. And 



now that I have got a little respite, I make 
use of it to thank you for this valuable in- 
stance of your good-will, and to assure you 
that, with the sincere heart of a true Scots- 
man, I highly esteem both the gift and the 
giver ; as a small testimony of which I have 
herewith sent you for your amusement (and 
in a form which I hope you will excuse for 
saving postage) the two songs I wrote about 
to you already. Charming Nancy is the real 
production of genius in a ploughman of twenty 
years of age at the time of its appearing, with 
no more education than what he picked up at 
an old farmer-grandfather's fire-side, though 
now by the strength of natural parts, he is 
clerk^to a thriving bleach-field in the neigh- 
bourhood. And I doubt not but you will find 
in it a simplicity and delicacy, with some 
turns of humour, that will please one of your 
taste ; at least it pleased me when 1 first saw 
it, if that can be any recommendation to it. 
The other is entirely descriptive of my own 
sentiments : and you may make use of one or 
both as you shall see good.* 

* CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG BT A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 
Tune— " Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion I'll strive to be plain ; 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain, 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come, be my ain. 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her'dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, 

My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruday morning, 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene, 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 

My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain ? 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen ; 
She's well shap'd and slender, true-hearted and tender, 

My charming sweet Nancy, Owert thou my ain ! 

I'll seek thro' the nation for some habitation, 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain, 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her ay cheery, 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain j 
Thou shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 
Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain ; 



LETTERS. H5 

You will oblige me by presenting my re- 
spects to your host, Mr. Cruickshank, who 



Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, 
My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 

But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 
To favour another be forward and fain, 

I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her, 
Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain. 

, THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 
Tune— " Dumbarton's Drums." 
O ! why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O, 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, O . 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and the claething, O. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O, 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss, 
And what further could we wiss, 
To be pleas'd wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far, 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow eleenies, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O, 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O, 
Indeed we've been in want, 
And our living been but scant, 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 

Where we've long been a Father and a Mither, O, 

And, tho' not of stone and lime, 

It'will last us a' our time, 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O, 
1 We'll go hand in hand I' wiss, 
To a better house than this, 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
There's nothing in't all to confound us, O, 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, : 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O, 



116 



LETTERS. 



has given such high approbation to my poor 
Latinity ; you may let him know, that as I 
have likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, 
I have two ^things that I would, if he desires 
it, submit, not to his judgment, but to his 
amusement ; the one, a translation of Christ's 
Kirk o' the Green, printed at Aberdeen some 
years ago ; the other, Batrachomyomachia 
Homeri latinis vzstiia cum additamentis, given 
in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. 
Mr. C. will know Seria non semper delectant, 
nonjoca semper. Semper deleclant seria mixta 
»ocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 
JOHN SKINNER. 

No. XLVIII. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 

SIR, 

I enclose you onjs or two more of my 
bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of honest 
gratitude have any influence with that great 
unknown Being, who frames the chain of 
causes and events, prosperity and happiness 
will attend your visit to the Continent, and 
return you safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it 
as my privilege to acquaint you with my pro- 
gress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I 
could say it with truth, that, next to my little 
fame, and the having it in my power to make 
life more comfortable to those whom nature has 
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your 
countenance, your patronage, your friendly 
good offices, as the most valued consequence 
of my late success in life. 



No. XLIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 4th May, 1788. 

MADAM, 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do 
not know whether the critics will agree with 
me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best 



of Virgil. It is, indeed, a species of Writing 
entirely new to me, and has filled my head 
with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, 
alas ! when I read the Georgics and then sur- 
vey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a 
Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a 
thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. 
I own I am disappointed in the JEneid. Fault- 
less correctness may please, and does highly 
please the lettered critic : but to that awful 
character I have not the most distant preten- 
sions. I do not know whether I do not hazard 
my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, 
when 1 say, that I think Virgil, in many in- 
stances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had 
the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many 
passages where Virgil has evidently copied, 
but by no means improved Homer. Nor can 
I think there is any thing of this owing to the 
translators ; for, from every thing 1 have seen 
of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency 
of language, Pope's master. 1 have not per- 
used Tasso enough to form an opinion ; in 
some future letter you shall have my ideas of 
him ; though I am conscious my criticisms 
must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as 
there I have ever felt and lamented my want 
of learning most. 



No. I,. 
TO THE SAME. 

27th May, 1788. 

MADAM, 

I have been torturing my philosophy to 
no purpose to account for that kind partiality 
of yours, which, unlike * * * 

has followed me in my return to the shade of 
life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did 
I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late Will- 
o'-Wisp'.appearance, that " here I had no con- 
tinuing city ;" and, but for the consolation of 
a few solid guineas, could almost lament the 
time that a momentary acquaintance with 
wealth and splendour put me so much out of 
conceit with the sworn companions of my road 
through life, insignificance and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me,) than the importance 
the opulent bestow on their trifling family 
affairs, compared with the very same things 



on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last 
afternoon 1 had the honour to spend an hour 
Dr two at a good woman's fireside, where the 
planks that composed the floor were decorated 
with a splendid carpet, and the gay table 
sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis now 
about term-day, and there has been a revolu- 
tion among those Creatures, who, though in 
appearance partakers, and equally noble par- 
takers, of the same nature with Madame, are 
from time to time, their nerves, their sinews, 
their health, strength, wisdom, experience, 
genius, time, nay a good part of their very 
thoughts, sold for months and years, * 
* * * not only to the necessities, 
the conveniences, but the caprices of the im- 
portant few.* We talked of the insignificant 
creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general 
stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But light 
be the turf upon his breast who taught— 
" Reverence thyself." We looked down en 
the unpolished wretches, their impertinent 
wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull 
does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny 
inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of 
his rambles, or tosses in the air in the wanton- 
ness of his pride. 



No. LI. 



TO THE SAME. 
A.T MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland, IZth June, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee, 
" Still to ray friend turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen 'd chain." 

Goldsmith, 

This is " the second day, my honoured 
friend, that 1 have been on my farm. A soli- 
tary inmate of an old smoky Spence ; far from 
every object I love or by whom 1 am beloved ; 
nor any acquaJRince older than yesterday, 
except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; 
while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly 
insult my awkward ignorance and bashful 
inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere 
native to my soul in the hour of care, conse- 
quently the dreary objects seem larger than 

# Servants, in Scotland, are hired from term to term ; 
it. from Whitsunday to Martinmas, &c. 



LETTERS. J 17 

the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and 
prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series oi 
misfortunes and disappointments, at that 
period of my existence when the so,ul is laying 
in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, 
I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy 
frame of mind. 



" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes ?' ' &c. 



Your surmise, Madam, is just 
a husband. 



I am indeec 



I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to 
the mercy of the naked elements ; but I 
enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there 
is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully de- 
voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to 
the best advantage by a more than commonly 
handsome figure; these, I think in a woman, 
may make a good wife, though she should 
never have read a page but the Scriptures oj 
the Old and New Testament, nor have danced 
in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay 
wedding. 



LII. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

I shall say nothing at all to your mad 
present— you ha\e long and often been of im- 
portant service to me, and I suppose you 
mean to go on conferring obligations until 1 
shall not be able to lift up my face before you. 
In the mean time, as Sir Roger de Coverly, 
because it happened to be a cold day in which 
he made his will, ordered his servants great 
coats for mourning, so, because I have been 
this week plagued with an indigestion, I have 
sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk 
cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight ol 
successful knavery, and sicken to loathing at 
the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 



118 LETTERS. 

"When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in 
my nostril, that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are 
no niggard of your good things among your 
friends, and some of them are in much need of 
a slice. There in my eye is our friend, Smel- 
lie; a man positively of the first abilities and 
greatest strength of mind, as well as one of 
the best hearts and keenest wits that I have 
ever met with ; when you see him, as alas ! 
he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful 
circumstances, aggravated by the sneer of 
contumelious greatness— a bit of my cheese 
alone will not cure him; but if you add a 
tankard of brown stout, and superadd a mag- 
num of right Oporto, you will see his sorrows 
vanish like the morning mist before the suia- 
mer sun. 

' C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his super- 
abundant modesty, you would do well to give 
it him. 

David,* with his Courant, comes too, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to en- 
able him to digest those — bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a cer- 
tain great town. I grant you the periods are 
very well turned ; so, a fresh egg is a very good 
thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory 
it does not at all improve his figure, not to 
mention the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D -r, I would wish 

also to be a partaker : not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs off, but to digest his last 
night's wine at the last field day of the Croch- 
allan corps.f 

Among our common friends, I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach ; and if 

• Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant 
■f A club of choice spirits. 



you can help him to any thing that will make 
him a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a con- 
tented happy man, that I know not what can 
annoy him, except perhaps he may not have 
got the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes 
which a certain poet gave him one night at 
supper, the last time the said poet was in 
town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly. — The faculty are beyond my pre- 
scription. As to their clients, that is another 
thing : God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as 
to place them far, far above either my praise 
or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to 
the landlord of the King's-arms inn here, to. 
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfries-shire whigs, to enable them to di- 
gest the Duke of Queensberry's late political 
conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of u 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



No. LIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d August, 1788. 

HONOURED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yester- 
night, to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously 
a.ngry with you at the quantum of your luck- 
penny : but, vexed and hurt as 1 was, I could 
not help laughing very heartily at the noble 
Lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
youmy direction there, but 1 have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. 
Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, 



LETTERS. 

as at present 1 



H9 



building a dwelling-house 

am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, 

for I have scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger in termed - 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
" sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 

** Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this 
subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few 
lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a 
gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. 
They are almost the only favours the muses 
have conferred on me in that country.* 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday 
as I jogged through the wild hills of New 
Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or some- 
thing like them, in an epistle I am going to 
write to the gentleman on whose friendship 
my excise-hopes depend, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, one of the worthiest and most accom- 
plished gentlemen, not only of this country, 
but 1 will dare to say it, of this age. The 
following are just the first crude thoughts 
I unhouseled, unanointed, unannealed." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train : " 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were bless'd, did bliss on them depend ; 
Ah ! that •* the friendly e'er should want a friend!" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon." 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule j 
< Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon 1 should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 
good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But com e 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell ! 

- * The lines transcribed were those written in Friars- 
Carsc Hermitage. See Poems, p. 62. 



No. LIV. 



TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, 10th August, 1788. 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I 
found it, as well as another valued friend— my 
wife, waiting to welcome me to ALyrshire : I 
met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you, Madam, I do not sit 
down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
echoing .every sentiment, like the faithful 
Commons of Great Britain in Parliament as- 
sembled, answering a speech from the best of 
kings ! I express myself in the fulness of my 
heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting 
some of your kind inquiries ; but not, from 
your very odd reason, that I do not read your 
letters. All your epistles for several months 
have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb 
of gratitude, or a deep felt sentiment of venera- 
tion. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman 



When she first found herself " as women wish 
to be who love their lords," as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her " parents got the hint : 
and not only forbade me her company and the 
house, but, on my rumoured West-Indian 
voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail till I 
should find security in my about-to-be pater- 
nal relation. You know my lucky reverse of 
fortune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, 
I was made very welcome to visit my girl. 
The usual consequences began to betray her ; 
and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in 
Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned 
out of doors : and I wrote to a friend to shelter 
her till my return, when our marriage was de- 
clared. Her happiness or misery were in my 
hands ; and who could trifle with such a de- 
positee ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable com- 
panion for my journey of life, but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual in- 
stance. 



120 LETTERS. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably en- 
tailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affec- 
tation, with all the other blessed boarding- 
school acquirements, which (pardonnez moi, 
Madame) are sometimes, to be found among 
females of the upper ranks, but almost uni- 
versally pervade the misses of the would-be 
gentry. 



I like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respect- 
ing health, place, or company, have often a 
strength and always an originality, that would 
in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances 
and studied paragraphs. For me, I have 
often thought of keeping a letter, in progres- 
sion, by me, to send you when the sheet was 
written out. Now 1 talk of sheets, 1 must 
tell you, my reason for writing to you on pa- 
per of this kind, is my pruriency of writing to 
you at large. A page of post is on such a dis- 
sjcial narrow-minded bcale that I cannot 
abide it ; and double letters, at least in my mis- 
cellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous 
tax in a. close correspondence. 



No. LV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. 

I am in a fine disposition, my honoured 
friend, to send you an elegiac epistle ; and 
want only genius to make it quite Shen- 
stonian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wint'ry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange 
country— gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark, to misfortune in a wife and children ; — I 
could indulge these reflections, till my hu- 
mour should ferment into the most acid chag- 
rin,that would corrode the very thread of life. 



To counterwork these baneful feelings, I 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul, I always find that the most 
sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 



I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner for 

the first time. My reception was quite to my 
mind : from the lady of the house, quite flatter* 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the 
admiration of all present. My suffrage as a 
professional man, was expected : I for once 
went agonizing over the belly of my con- 
science. Pardon me, ye, my adored house- 
hold gods— Independence of Spirit, and In- 
tegrity of Soul ! In the course of conversation, 
Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of 
Scotish songs with the music, was talked of. 
We got a song on the harpischord, beginning, 

*' Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired ; the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words ; 
" Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very 
best verses :" she took not the smallest notice 
of them ! The old Scotish proverb says well, 
" king*s caff is better than itber folk's corn." 
I was going to make a New Testament quo- 
tation about " casting pearls :" but that would 
be too virulent, for the lady is actually a wo- 
man of sense and taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few 
favoured by partial heaven ; whose souls are 
tuned to gladness, amid riches and honours, 
and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the 
neglected many, whose nerves whose sinews, 
whose days, are sold to the minions of for- 
tune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scotish 
ballad, called The Life and Age of Man; be- 
ginning thus : , 

■" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an- old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died, during which time, his 



* See Poems, p. 107; 



.LETTERS, 



121 



highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while ray mother would sing the simple old 
song of The Ihfe and Age of Mail. 

It is this way of thinking, it is these mel- 
ancholy truths, that make religion so pre- 
cious to the poor, miserable children of men 
— if it is a mere phantom, existing only in the 
heated imagination ot enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie 1" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving) constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in 
the glare of public life ? No : to find them in 
their precious importance and divine efficacy, 
we must search among the obscure recesses 
of-disappointment, affliction, poverty and dis- 
tress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week ; and 
it quickens my pace to think that there will 
be a letter from you waiting me there. 1 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. 



No. LVI. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FlNTRY. 

SIR, 

When I had the honour of being intro- 
duced to you at Athole-house, I did not think 
so soon of asking a favour of you. When 
Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent why he 
wished to be in his service, he answers, " Be- 
cause; you have that in your face which I could 
like to call master." For some such reason, 
Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You 
know, I dare say, of an application I lately 
made to your Board to be admitted an officer 
of excise. I have, according to form, been 
examined by a supervisor, and to-day 1 gave 
Sh his certificate, with a request for an order 
for instructions. In this affair, if 1 succeed, I 
am afraid I shall but too much need a patron- 
ising friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, 
and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare 
engage for : but with any thing like business, 



except manual labour, I am totally unacquain. 
ted. 



I had intended to have closed my late ap 
pearance on the stage of life in the characte 
of a country-farmer; but, after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see thxow a vener- 
able parent Into the jaws of a jail : whence 
death., the poor man's last and often best 
friend, rescued him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it : may I therefore beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affair, till 1 
be appointed to a division, where, by the 
help of rigid economy, I will try to support 
that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which has been too often so distant from my 
situatioiii*" 

No. LVII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchtine, 1st October, 1788. 

I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch-Lomond," you 
were so obliging as to send to me. Were I 
empannelled one of the author's jury to deter- 
mine his criminality respecting the sin of poe- 
sy, my verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of 
Nature's making." It is an excellent method 
for improvement, and what I believe every poet 
does, to place some favourite classic author, 
in his own walk of study and composition, 
before him as a model. Though your author 
had 40 1 mentioned the name I could have, at 
half a glance, guessed his model to be Thom- 
son. Will my brother-poet forgive me, if I 
venture to hint, that his imitation of that im- 
mortal bard is, in two or three places, rather 
more servile than such a genius as his re- 
quired — e. g. 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 

THOMSON. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, hai- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully 

* Here followed the poetical part of the Kpistle, givenitt 
the Poems, p. 79. 



122 



LETTERS. 



equal to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he 
has looked into nature for himself: you meet 
with no copied description. One particular 
criticism I made at first reading ; in no one in- 
stance has he said too much. He never flags 
in his progress, but, like a true poet of 
Nature's making, kindles in his course. His 
beginning is simple, and modest, as if distrust- 
ful of the strength of his pinion; only, I do 
not altogether like — 

" Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may 
be but a prose-criticism. Is not the phrase, 
in line 7, page 6. " Great Lake," too much vul- 
garized by every-day language, for so su- 
blime a poem? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
of a comparison with other lakes is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles. 

The perspective that follows mountains 
blue — the imprisoned billows beating in vain 
— the wooded isles — the digression on the yew- 
tree — " Ben-Lomond's lofty cloud envelop'd 
head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is 
a subject which has been often tried ; yet our 
poet, in his grand picture, has interjected a cir- 
cumstance, so far as I know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep-seatn'd with frequent streaks of moving lire." 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens, how 
dark between !" is noble highland landscape ! 
The " rain ploughing the red mould,' 7 too, is* 
beautifully fancied. Ben- Lomond's " lofty 
pathless top," is a good expression ; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great : the 

" Silver mist 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole ; but the 
swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial 
listening ear," is a pretty thought. But, in 
my opinion, the moat beautiful passages in 
the whole poem are the fowls crowding, in 



wintry frosts, to Loch-Lomond's " hospitabla 
flood;" their wheeling round, their lighting, 
mixing, diving, &c. ; and the glorious descrip- 
tion of the sportsman, This last is equal to 
any thing in the Seasons, The idea of " the 
floating tribes distant seen, far glistering to 
the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged 
to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. 
" The howling winds," the " hideous roar" 
of " the white cascades," are all in the same 
style. 

I forget that, while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however mention, that the last verse of the 
sixteenth page is one of the most elegant com- 
pliments I have ever seen. I must likewise 
notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning, 
" The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into 
the particular beauties of the two last para- 
graphs, but4hey are admirably fine, and truly 
Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began— I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired n.e to commission 
for him two books, Letters on the Religion 
essential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant. I only wish it had been in two vol- 
umes. 



No. LVIII. 

TO MRS. DUJNLOP, AT MOREHAM 

MAINS. 

Mauchline, lUh November, 1788. 

MADAM, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining 
at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter 
women because they are weak ; if it is so 
poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and 
K., and Miss G. M'K., with their flattering 
attentions and artful compliments, absolutely 



* The poem, entitled, An Address to Lock. Lomond, is 
said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the Masters 
of the High-school at Edinburgh; andWie same who trans- 
lated the beautiful story of the Paria, as published in the 
lice oi Dr. Anders on. E, 



LETTERS. 



tUTned my head. I own they did not lard me 
over as many a poet does his patron * * 
* * but they so intoxicated me with 
their sly insinuations and delicate inuendoes 
of compliment, that if it had not been for a 
lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and 
friendship must give me in that circle, I had 
certainly looked upon myself as a person of 
no small consequence. I dare not say one 
word how much I was charmed with the Ma- 
jor's* friendly welcome, elegant manner, and 
acute remark, lest I should be thought to 
balance my orientalisms of applause over 
against the finest quey* in Ayrshire, which he 
made me a present of to help and adorn my 
farm-stock. As it was on Hallowday, I am 
determined annually, as that day returns, to 
decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude 
to the family of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dun- 
lop, I will take the first conveniency to dedi- 
cate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the gaurantee of the Major's 
hospitality. There will be soon threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between 
us ; and now that your friendship and friendly 
correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge 
myself in a happy day of" The feast of reason 
and the flow of soul." 



No. LIX. 



TO 



November 8, 1788. 



Notwithstanding the opprobrious epi- 
thets with which some of our philosophers 
and gloomy sectaries have branded our nature 
■ — the principle of universal selfishness, the 
proneness to all evil, they have given us ; still 
the detestation in which inhumanity to the 
distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held 
: by all mankind, shows that they are not na- 
i tives of the human heart. Even the unhappy 
partner of our kind, who is undone, the bitter 
consequence of his follies or his crimes ; — who 
but sympathizes with the miseries of this 
I ruined profligate brother? we forget the in- 
juries, and feel for the man. 

* Heifer. 



12* 
to my parish- 



I went, last Wednesday, 
church, most cordially to join in grateful ac- 
knowledgments to the Author of all Good, 
for the consequent blessings of the glorious 
Revolution. To that auspicious event we owe 
no less than our liberties, civil and religious ; 
to it we are likewise indebted for the present 
Royal Family, the ruling features of whose 
administration have ever been mildness to the 
subject, and tenderness of his lights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice 
which made my heart revolt at the harsh, 
abusive manner in which the reverend gentle- 
man mentioned the House of Stewart, and 
which, I am afraid, was too much the lan- 
guage of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently 
in our deliverance from past evils, without 
cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose 
misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their 
crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we 
may bless GoD'for all his goodness to us as a 
nation, without, at the same time, cursing a 
few ruined, powerless exiles, who only har- 
boured ideas, and made attempts, that most 
of us would have done had we been in their 
situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical house of 
Stewart," may be said with propriety and 
justice when compared with the present Royal 
Family, and the sentiments of our days ; but 
is there no allowance to be made for the man- 
ners of the times? Were the royal contem- 
poraries of the Stewarts more attentive to 
their subjects' rights ? Might not the epithets 
of " bloody and tyrannical" be with at least 
equal justice, applied to the House of Tu- 
dor, of York, or any other of their predeces- 
sors? 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to 
be this:— At that period, the science ot 
government, the knowledge of the true rela- 
tion betweeen king and subject, was, like 
other sciences and other knowledge, just in 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignor- 
ance and barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for preroga- 
tives which they knew their predecessors en- 
joyed, and which they saw their contem- 
poraries enjoying; but these prerogative 
were inimical to the happiness of a nation and 
the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of BCience 






124 



LETTERS. 



which had lately dawned over Europe, the 
monarch of" France, for example, was victor- 
ious over the struggling liberties of his peo- 
ple ; with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and 
his unwarrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice 
to our rights and happiness. Whether it was 
owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, 
or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend 
to determine ; but likewise, happily for us, 
the kingly power was shifted into another 
branch of the family, who, as they owed the 
throne solely to the call of a free people, 
could claim nothing inconsistent with the 
covenanted terms which placed them there. 



The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed, I bless Goo ; but cannot join in the 
ridicule against them. Who does not know 
that the abilities or defects of leaders and 
commanders are often hidden, until put to the 
touchstone of exigency ; and that there is a 
caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particu- 
lar accidents and conjunctures of circum- 
stances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand 
us as madmen, just as they are for or against 
us? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being: who would believe, Sir, 
that in this, our Augustan age of liberality 
and refinement, while we seem so justly sensi- 
ble and jealous] of our rights and liberties, 
and animated with such indignation against 
the very memory of those who would have 
subverted them— that a certain people under 
our national protection, should complain, not 
against our monarch and a few favourite ad- 
visers, but against our whole" legislative 
body, for similar oppression, and almost in 
the very same terms, as our forefathers did of 
the House of Stewart! I will not, I cannot 
enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare 
say, the American Congress, in 1776, will be 
allowed to be as able and as enlightened as 
the English Convention was in 1G88 ; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenary 
of their deliverance from us, as duly and sin- 
cerely as w r e do ours from the oppressive 
measures of the wrong-headed House of 
Stewart. 



To conclude, Sir: let every man who has <i 
tear for the many miseries incident to hu- 
manity, feci for a family illustrious as any in 
Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic pre- 
cedent ; and let every Briton (and particu, 
larl.y every Scotsman,) who ever looked with 



reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast 
a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of 
his forefathers.* 



No. LX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 17th Dec. 1788. 

MY DEAR, HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have 
just read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost 
blind, and wholly deaf," are melancholy news 
of human nature ; but when told of a much- 
loved and honoured friend, they carry misery 
in the sound. Goodness on your part, and 
gratitude on mine, began a tie, which has 
gradually and strongly entwisted itself among 
the dearest cords of my bosom ; and I tremble 
at the omens of your late and present ailing 
habits and shattered health. You miscal- 
culate matters widely, when you forbid my 
waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly 
concerns. My small scale of farming is ex- 
ceedingly more simple and easy than what 
you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But 
be that as it may, the heart of the man, and 
the fancy of the poet, are the two grand con- 
siderations for which I live : if miry ridges 
and dirty dunghills are to engross the best 
part of the functions of my soul immortal, T 
had better been a rook or a magpie at once, 
and then I should not have been plagued with 
any ideas superior to breaking of clods, and 
picking up grubs : not to mention barn-door 
cocks or mallards, creatures with which I 
could almost exchangee lives at any time — If 
you continue so deaf, 1 am afraid a visit will 
be no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I 
hear you are got so well again as to be able 
to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, 
for 1 will make my threatenings good. I am 
to be at the new-year-day fair of Ayr, and by 
all that is sacred in the word Friend ' I will 
come and see you. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old school fellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world !— They spoil these "social offsprings 
of the heart." Two veterans of the " men of 
the world" would have met with little more 



* This letter was sent to the publisher of some news 
paper, probably the publisher of the Edinburgh Evening 

Cuurant. 



LETTERS. 

heart-workings than two old hacks worn out 
on th& road. Apropos, is not the Scotch 
phrase, " Auld lang syne," exceedingly ex- 
pressive. — There is an old song and tune 
which has often thrilled through my soul. 
You know 1 am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
songs: I shall give you the verses on the 
other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Kerr will save 
you the postage.* 



Light be the turf on the breast of the 
Heaven-inspired poet who composed this 
gITfrious fragment ! There is more of the fire 
of native genius in it than half a dozen of mo- 
dern English Bacchanalians. Now 1 am on 
my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two 
other old stanzas which please me mightily, f 



No. LXI. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 



A young lady who had heard he had been making 
Ballad on her, enclosing that Ballad. 



December, 1788. 



I understand my very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Riddle, has informed you that I have 
made you the subject of some verses. There 
is something so provoking in the idea of being 
the burden of a ballad, that I do not think 
Job or Moses, though such patterns of pa- 
tience and meekness, could have resisted the 
curiosity to know what that ballad was : so 
my worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which, I dare say, he never intended ; and 
reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of 
leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- 
gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished 
production of a random moment, and never 
meant to have met your ear. I have heard or 
read sorr^where of a gentleman, who had 
some genius, much eccentricity, and very con- 
siderable dexterity with his pencil. In the 
accidental group of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch 
of the face, merely, as he said, as a nota bene 
to point out the agreeable recollection to his 

* Here follows the song of Auld lang sync, as printed in 
l<h_c poenis. E. 

f Here followed th» son^, My Bonnie Mary. Poems, 
V> 37 ' 



125 

memory. What this gentleman's pencil was 
to him, is my milse to me : and the verses I 
do myself the honour to send you are a 
memento exactly of the same kind that he in- 
dulged in. 



It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt, 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart/' I positively feel what 
an orthodox protestant would call a species of 
idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion ; and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an Eolian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
which hit my fancy were gray-bearded age : 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, 
by heavens ! though I had lived threescore 
years a married man, and threescore years 
before I was a married man, my imagination 
would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly 
sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such 
poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXII. 



FROM MR. G. BURNS. 



Mossgiel, 1st Jan. 1789. 



DEAR BROTHER, 



I have just finished my new-year's-day 
breakfast in the usual form, which naturally 
makes me call to mind the days of former 
years, and the society in which we used to be- 
gin them ; and when I look at our family 
vicissitudes, " thro' the daik postern of time 
long elapsed," I cannot help remarking to 
you, my dear brother, how good the God of 
Seasons is to us, and that, however some 
clouds may seem to lower over the portion of 
time before us, we have great reason to hope 
that all will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the 
season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you 
will remember us in the same manner to 
William, the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



ne 



LETTERS. 



No. LXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-Year-Day Morning. 
This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes;' 
and would to God (hat I came under the 
apostle James's description ! — the prayer of a 
righteous man availeth much. In that case, 
Madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings : every thing that obstructs or dis- 
turbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, should 
be removed, and every pleasure that frail 
humanity can taste should be yours. I own 
myself so little a presbyterian, that 1 approve 
of set times and seasons of more than ordinary 
acts of devotion, for breaking in on that 
habituated routine of life and thought which 
is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of 
instinct, or even sometimes, and with some 
minds, to a state very little superior to mere 
machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy 
blue-skyed noon, some time about the begin- 
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny 
day about the end of autumn ; — these, time 
out of mind, have been with me a kind of holi- 
day. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, '« The Vision of Mirza ;" a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
capable of fixing an idea to a word of three 
syllables, " On the fifth day of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my fore- 
fathers, I always keep holy, after having 
washed myself, and offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in medita- 
tion and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot 
account for those seeming caprices in them, 
that one should be particularly pleased with 
this thing, or struck with that, which, on 
minds of a different cast, makes no extraor- 
dinary impression. I have some favourite 
flowers in spring, among which are the moun- 
tain daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the 
wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over 
with particular delight. I never heard the 
loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a sum- 
mer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a 
troop of gray plover in an autumnal morning, 



without feeling an elevation of soul like the 
enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my 
dear friend, to what can this be owing. Are 
we a piece of machinery, which, like the 
Eolian harp, passive, takes the impression of 
the passing accident? Or do these workings 
argue something within us above the trodden 
clod? I own myself partial to such proofs oi 
those awful and important realities — a God 
that made all things — man's immaterial and 
immortal nature — and a world of weal or wo 
beyond death and the grave. 



No. LXIV. 



TO DR. MOORE, 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 1789. 



As often as I think of writing to you, 
which has been three or four times every week 
these six months, it gives me something so 
like the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offer- 
ing at a conversation with the Rhodian colos* 
sus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair 
always miscarries somewhere between pur- 
pose and resolve. I have, at last, got some 
business with you, and business-letters are 
written by the style-book. I say my busi- 
ness is with you, Sir, for you never had 
any with me, except the business that benevo- 
lence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I know that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
situation, and the honest prejudice of Scots- 
men; but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself as having 
some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doubt but the knack, 
the aptitude, to learn the Muses' trade, is a 
gift bestowed by Him, " who forms the secret 
bias of the soul ;" — but I as firmly believe, 
that excellence in the profession is the fruit of 
industry, labour, attention, and pains. At 
least I am resolved to try my doctrine by the 
test of experience. Another appearance from 
the press 1 put off to a very distant day, a day 
that may never arrive— but poesy I am deter- 
mined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
Nature has given very few, if any, of the 
profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know) whether she 



LETTERS 

has qualified me to shine in any one. The 
worst of it is, by the time one has finished 
a piece, it has been so often viewed and re- 
viewed before the mental eye, that one 
loses, in a good measure, the powers of 
critical discrimination. Here the best cri- 
terion I know is a friend — not only of abili- 
ties to judge, but with good-nature enough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, 
to praise perhaps a little more than is ex- 
actly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall 
into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases 
—heart-breaking despondency of himself. 
Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted to 
your goodness, ask the additional obligation of 
your being that friend to me ? I enclose you 
an essay of mine in a walk of poesy to me 
entirely new ; I mean the epistle addressed to 
R. G. Esq. or Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq . 
a gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I 
lie under very great obligations. The story of 
the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
nected with my own story ; and to give 
you the one 1 must give you something of the 
other. 1 cannot boast of— - 



I believe I shall, in whole, £100 copy-right 
included, clear about £400 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my wel- 
fare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm : with 
the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rath- 
er the reverse. 1 have a younger brother 
who supports my aged mother ; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me 
about £180 to save them from ruin. Not that 
I have lost so much — I only interposed be- 
tween my brother and his impending fate by 
the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on 
this, for it was mere selfishness on my part: 
I was conscious that the wrong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged ; and 1 
thought that throwing a little filial piety, and 
fraternal affection, into the scale in my favour, 
might help to smooth matters at the grand 
reckoning. There is still one thing would 
make my circumstances quite easy : I have an 
excise-officer's commission, and i live in the 
midst of a country division, My request to 
Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners 
of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me 
that division. If I were very sanguine, I 



127 
might hope that some of my great patrons 
might procure me a treasury warrant fur 
supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sw^ret 
poetry, delightful maid !" I would consecrate 
my future days. 



No. LXV. 



TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, 20th Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
Edinburgh a few days after 1 had the happi- 
ness of meeting you in Ay rshire, but you were 
gone for the Continent. I have added a few 
more of my productions, those for which I am 
indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece 
inscribed to R. G. Esq. is a copy of verses I 
sent Mr. Graham, of Fintry, accompanying a 
request for his assistance in a matter, to me, 
of very great moment. To that gentleman I 
am already doubly indebted, for deeds of 
kindness of serious import to my dearest in- 
terests, done in a manner grateful to the deli- 
cate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a 
species of composition new to me ; but I do 
not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, 
as you will see by the " Poet's Progress." 
These fragments, if my design succeeds, are 
but a small part of the intended whole. I pro. 
pose it shall be the work of my utmost exer- 
tions ripened by years : of course 1 do not 
wish it much known. The fragment, begin- 
ning " A little, upright, pert, tart," &c, I 
have not shown to man living, till now I send 
it you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, 
the definition of a character, which, if it ap- 
pear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. 
This particular part I send you merely .as a 
sample of my hand at portrait-sketching; but 
lest idle conjecture should pretend to point out 
the original, please let it be for your single, 
sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble 
to a gentleman who has treated me w ith such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness; 
who has entered into my interests with so much 
zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so 
fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these 
decisions to me, are of the last consequence. 
My late transient acquaintance among some of 



128 



LET1ERS, 



the mere rank and fiie of greatness, I resign 
with ease; but to the distinguished cham- 
pions of genius and learning, I shall be ever 
ambitious of being known. The native genius 
and accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's 
critical strictures; the justness (iron justice, 
for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor 
poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and 
the delicacy of Professor DalzeFs taste, I 
shall ever revere. I shall be in Edinburgh 
some time next month. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your highly obliged, and very humble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVI. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, M Feb. 1789. 

VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious, that wherever I am, 
you do me the honour to interest yourself in 
my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform you 
that I am here at last, stationary in the se- 
rious"business of life, and have now not only 
the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination 
to attend to those great and important ques- 
tions — what I am ? where 1 am ? and for what 
I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man , 
there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blameable, and there I have secu- 
red myself in the way pointed out by Nature 
and Nature's God. I was sensible that, to so 
helpless a creature as a poor poet, a wife and 
family were encumbrances, which a species of 
prudence would bid him shun ; but when the 
alternative was, being at eternal warfare with 
myself, on account of habitual follies to give 
them no worse name, which no general exam- 
ple, no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, 
would -to me, ever justify, I must have been 
a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to 
have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, will 
at any time procure me bread. There is a 
certain stigma affixed to the character of an 
excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow 



honour from any profession ; and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is great to 
any thing that the first twenty-five years of my 
life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in 
life, you may easily guess, my reverend and 
much-honoured friend, that my characterise 
tical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, 
more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I 
am determined to study man, and nature, and 
in that view incessantly ; and to try if the 
ripening and corrections of years can enable 
me to produce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my im- 
agination, or partly put in execution, 1 shall 
impart to you when I have the pleasure of 
meeting with you 1 which, if you are then in 
Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning 
of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must 
still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever 
unconcern I give up my transient connexion 
with the merely great, I cannot lose the pa- 
tronizing notice of the learned*and good, with- 
out the bitterest regret. 



No. LXVII. 
FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 
2d Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, ot 
Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the author 
of the verses which accompany this letter. 
He was a man highly respectable for every 
accomplishment and virtue which adorns the 
character of a. man or a christian. To a great 
degree of literature,of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
wiiich prevented in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and connned the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small circle of 
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all who 
enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all 
who have any regard for virtue and genius. 
There is a wo pronounced in Scripture 



LETTERS. j gp 

against the person whom all men speak well | When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 

upon the head ofj rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 

should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 



of; if ever that wo fell upon the 
mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left 
behind him a considerable number of composi- 
tions, chiefly poetical, sufficient, I imagine, to 
make a large octavo volume. In particular, 
two complete and regular tragedies, a farce 
of three acts, and some smaller poems on dif- 



to exclaim—" What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have I had, in some state of 
pre-existence, that he is ushered into this 
state of being with the sceptre of rule, and 
the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am 



ferent subjects. It falls to my share, who kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or 
have lived in the most intimate and uninter- the victim of pride V I have read somewhere 
rupted friendship with him from my youth! of a monarch (in Spain I think it was,) who 



upwards, to transmit to you the verses he 
wrote on the publication of your incomparable 
poems. It is probable they were his last, as 
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up 
with the form of a letter addressed to you, 
and, I imagine were only prevented from 



was so out of humour with the Ptolemean 
system of astronomy, that he said, had he 
been of the Creator^ council, he could have 
saved him a great deal of labour and absurd- 
ity. I will not defend this blasphemous 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with 



being sent by himself, by that melancholy J humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's 
dispensation which we still bemoan. The street, it has suggested itself to me, as an 
verses themselves I will not pretend to criti- improvement on the present human figure, 



cise when writing to a gentleman whom I 
consider as entirely qualified to judge of their 
merit. They are the only verses he seems to 
have attempted in the Scotish style ; and I 
hesitate not to say, in general, that they will 
bring no dishonour on the Scotish muse ; — and 
allow me to add, that, if it is your opinion 
they are not unworthy of the author, and will 



that a. man, in proportion to his own conceit 
of his consequence in the world, could have 
pushed out the longitude of his common size, 
as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw 
out a perspective. This trifling alteration 
not to mention the prodigious saving it would 
be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb- 
sinews of many of his majesty's liege subjects, 



be no discredit to you, it is the inclination of in the way of tossing the head and tiptoe- 



Mr. Mylne's friends that they should be im- 
mediately published in some periodical work, 
-to give the world a specimen of what may be 
expected from his performances in the poetic 
line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards pub- 
lished for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this ; and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself, with great re- 
gard, 

Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. CARFRAE. 






**.»*. %■*■%-» -w ■« 



No. LXVIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned 
Safe from the capital. To a man who has a 
home, however humble or remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic com- 
fort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a 
business of sickening disgust. 

" Vain pomp and flory of this world, I bate you." 



strutting, would evidently turn out a vast 
advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a 
second of the precise spherical angle of rever- 
ence, or an inch of the particular point of 
respectful distance, which the important crea- 
ture itself requires ; as a measuring- glance at 
its towering altitude would determine the 
affair like instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault— it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a 
shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into 
public notice, tinder the title of Scotish Poets, 
that the very term Scotish Poetry borders 
on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Car- 
frae, I shall 'advise him rather to try one of 
his deceased friend's English pieces. I am 
prodigiously hurried with my own matters, 
else I would have requested a perusal of all 
Mylne's poetic performances ; and would have 
offered his friends my assistance in either 
selecting or correcting what would be proper 
for the press. What it is that occupies me sc 
much, and perhaps a little oppresses my pres- 
f ent spirts, shall fill up a paragraph in some 
future letter. In the mean time, allow me to 
S 



130 



LETTERS. 



close this epistle with a few lines done by a f est harvest which fate has denied himself to 



friend of mine * * * *. I give you them, that, 
as you have seen the original, you may guess 
whether one or two alterations I have ven- 
tured to make in them, be any real improve- 
ment. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And all you are, my charming ****, seem, 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approve. 



No. LXIX, 
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 



1789. 



REVEREND SIR, 



1 do not recollect that I have ever felt a 
severer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value 
by the endearing though melancholy circum- 
stance of its being the last production of his 
muse, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- 
tion of nonsense under the name of Scotish 
poetry. Subscription bills for Scotish poems 
have so dunned, and daily do dun, the public, 
that the very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr. 
Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. be at all 
prudent, in my opinion, it certainly should not 
be a Scotish poem. The profits of the labours 
of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable 
as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's 
relations are most justly entitled to that hon- 

* Thete beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, are the 
production of the lady to whom this letter is addressed. E. 



reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame 
(among whom I crave the honour of ranking 
myself) always keep in eye his respectability 
as a man and as a poet, and take no measure 
that, before the world knows any thing about 
him, would risk his name and character being 
classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, Sir, some experience of publishing, 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. Mylne's poems is this : I would publish 
in two or three English and Scotish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the 
most excellent, and mention it, at the same 
time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer, of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends had it in 
idea to publish soon, by subscription, for the 
sake of his numerous family : — not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends 
think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and 
to secure, in the most effectual manner, to 
those tender connexions, whose right it is, the 
pecuniary reward of those merits. 



No LXX. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Ellisland, 23d March, 1789. 



SIR, 



The gentleman who will deliver you this 
is a Mr. Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my 
neighbourhood, and a very particular acquain- 
tance of mine. As I have troubled him with 
this packet, I must turn him over to your, 
goodness, to recompense him for it in a way 
in which he much needs your assistance, and 
where you can effectually serve him : — Mr. 
Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on 
his Grace of Queensberry, on some little busi- 
ness of a good deal of importance to him, and 
he wishes for your instructions respecting the 
most eligible mode of travelling, &c. for him, 
when he has crossed the channel. I should 
not have dared to take this liberty with you, 
but that I am told, by those who have the 
honour of your personal acquaintance, that 
to be a poor honest Scotchman, is a letter of 
recommendation to you, and that to have it 
in your power to serve such a character gives 
you much pleasure. 



LETTERS, 



1S1 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. *****, of »•******. You, 
probably, knew her personally, an honour of 
which I cannot boast; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants, I know that she was de- 
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her con- 
duct which roused my poetic wrath, she was 
much less blameable. In January last, on 
my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie 
Whigham's in Sanquhar, the only tolerable 
inn in the place. The frost was keen, and 
the grim evening and howling wind were 
ushering in a night of snow and drift. My 
horse and I were both much fatigued with 
the labours of the day ; and just as my friend 
the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the 
funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. *•****, 
and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors 
of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, 
my young favourite horse, whom 1 had just 
christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, 
through the wildest moors and hills of Ayr- 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, 
when I would describe what I felt. Suffice 
it to say, that when a good fire at new Cum- 
nock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, 
I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode.* 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, 
that, at last, he has been amicable and fair 
with me. 



No. LXXI. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopo- 
lus (God forgive me for murdering language,) 
that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 



It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you 
are going to borrow, apply to 



* The Ode enclosed is that printed in Poems, \. 6S. E 



to compose, or rather to compound something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that 
I write to one of my most esteemed frienda on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable 
vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts!— thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings 
with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! 
— lead me, hand me, in thy clutching, palsied 
fist, up those heights, and through those 
thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious 
to my anxious, weary feet : — not those Par- 
nassian crags, bleak and barren, where the 
hungry worshippers of fame are breathless, 
clambering, hanging between heaven and 
hell ; but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, 
where the all-sufficient, all-powerful deity, 
Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys and 
pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of 
plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, pro- 
duce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in 
this world, and natives of Paradise ! — Thou 
withered sibyl, my sage conductress, usher 
me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — The 
power, splendid and potent as he now is, was 
once the puling nursling of thy faithful care 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, 
thy kinsman or favourite, and abjure the god, 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to 
favour me with his peculiar countenance and 
protection ! He daily bestows his greatest 
kindnesses on the undeserving and the worth- 
less — assure him that I bring ample docu- 
ments of meritorious demerits ! Pledge your- 
self for me, that for the glorious cause of 
Lucre I will do any thing— be any thing— but 
the horse-leech of private oppression, or the 
1 vulture of public robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a , Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English Dictionary— Johnson's I suppose is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. There 
is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. 
Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my 
worthy friend, and your well-wisber. Please 
give him, and urge him to take it, the first 



132 



LETTERS. 



time you see him, ten shillings worth of any 
thing you have to sell, and place it to my 
account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Cap- 
tain Riddel. There is another in emulation of 
it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices 
of Mr. Monteith of Closeburn, which will be 
on a greater scale than ours. Capt. R. gave 
his infant society a great many of his old 
books, else I had written you on that subject ; 
but one of these days, I shall trouble you with 
a communication for" The Monkland Friendly 
Society :"— a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, 
and Lounger; Man of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with 
some religious pieces, will likewise be our 
first order. 

When I grow richer I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present every guinea has a five-guinea errand 
with, 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 

R. B. 



No. LXXII. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ellisland, Uh April, 1789. 
I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to 
you, that communicating them to you gives to 
me, I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox: but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched, as fol- 
lows.* 



On the 20th current I hope to have the hon 
)ur of assuring you, in person, how sincerely 
I am — 



* Hire wis copied the Fragment inscribed to C. J. Fox. 
See 1'ocms, p. bl. 



No. LXXIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



Ellisland, Mh May, 17S&. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I 
received two days ago ; 1 will not say I per- 
used it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli- 
ment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with 
delicious satisfaction— in short, it is such a 
letter, that not you nor your friend, but the 
legislature, by express proviso in their post- 
age-laws, should frank. A letter informed 
with the soul of friendship is such an honour 
to human nature, that they should order it free 
ingress and egress to and from their bags and 
mails, as an encouragement and mark of dis- 
tinction to superemineut virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my 
indignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all of 
them have young ones. Indeed there is some- 
thing in that business of destroying, for our 
sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
do not injure us materially, which I could 
never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 



On seeing a Fellow wound a Hare with a Shot, 
April, 1789. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom warm. 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its wo ; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 

Ah 1 helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I '1 1 miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



LETTERS. 

Let me know how you like my poem. 1 am t pass. 



doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

C is a glorious production of the Author 

of man. You, he j and the noble Colonel of 
the C F are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you 
all, to the tune of " Three guid fellows ayont 
the glen." 



No. LXXIV. 

The poem in the preceding letter had also been sent by 
our Bard to Dr. Gregory for his criticism. The follow- 
ing is that gentleman's reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

DEAR SIR, 

I take the first leisure hour I could com- 
mand, to thank you for your letter, and the 
copy of verses enclosed in it. As there is real 
poetic merit, I mean both fancy and tender- 
ness, and some happy expressions in them, 1 
think they well deserve that you should revise 
them carefully, and polish them to the utmost. 
This I am sure you can do if you please, for 
you have great command both of expression 
and of rhymes : and you may judge from the 
two last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's poetry, that 
I gave you, how much correctness and high 
polish enhance the value of such compositions. 
As you desire it, 1 shall, with great freedom, 
give you my most rigorous criticisms on your 
verses. I wish you would give me another 
edition of them, much amended, and I will 
send it to Mrs. Hunter, who I am sure will 
have much pleasure in reading it. Pray give 
me likewise for myself, and her too, a copy 
( as much amended as you please) of the Water 
Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good sub- 
ject ; but the measure or stanza you ha've 
chosen for it, is not a good one ; it does not 
flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is 
almost lost by its distance from the first, and 
the two interposed, close rhymes. If 1 were 
you, 1 would put it into a different stanza 
yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first two 
lines are too strong or coarse; but they may 



133 

Murder-aiming" is a bad compound 



epithet, and not very intelligible. " Blood- 
stained," in stanza iii. line 4. has the same 
fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely better. 
You have accustomed yourself to such epithets 
and have no notion how stiff and quaint they 
appear to others, and how incongruous with 
poetic fancy and tender sentiments. Suppose 
Pope had written, " Why that blood-stained 
bosom gored," how would you have liked it? 
Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, nor a 
plain common word : it is a mere sportsman's 
word ; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poe- 
try. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word, but both may 
pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow?" will not do at 
all: it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. 
Do you mean, " provide for that life which the 
mother had bestowed and used to provide 
for ?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (1 suppose) for " Fellow," in the 
title of your copy of verses; but even fellow 
would be wrong ; it is but a colloquial and 
vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments, 
" Shot" is improper too. — On seeing^a person 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it is needless 
to add with what weapon ; but if you think 
otherwise you should say, with a fowling piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and 
I will show you some more of Mrs. Hunter's 
poems.* 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR. M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON 
<Wi June, 1789. 

DEAR SIR, 

Though I am not without my fears re- 
specting my fate, at that grand, universal 

* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more 
distinguished by its good sense, than by its freedom from 
ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the manner in 
which the poet may be supposed to have received it. In 
fact it appears, as the sailors say, to have thrown him quite 
aback. In a letter which he wrote soon after, he says, 

" Dr. G is a good man, but lie crucifies me." — 

And again, " I believe in the iron justice of Dr. G ;" 

but, like the devils " I believe and tremble." However, 
he profited by these criticisms, as the reader will find by 
comparing the first edition of this piece with that publish- 
ed in p. 69. ot the Poems. 



134 



LETTERS* 



inquest of right and wrong, commonly called 
The Last Day, yet I trust there is one sin, 
which that arch vagabond, Satan, who I un- 
derstand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw 
in my teeth, I mean ingratitude. There is a 
certain pretty lai?ge quantum of kindness, for 
which I remain, and from inability, I fear 
must still remain, your debtor; but, though 
unable to repay the debt, I assure you, Sir, 
I shall ever warmly remember the obligation. 
It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear, 
by my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that 
you are, in immortal Allan's language, " Hale 
and weel, and living ;" and that your charming 
family are well, and promising to be an ami- 
able and respectable addition to the com- 
pany of performers,whom the great Manager 
of the drama of Man is bringing into action 
for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively inter- 
ested yourself, I am here in my old way, hold- 
ing my plough, marking the growth of my 
corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times 
sauntering by the delightful windings of the 
Nith, on the margin of which I have built 
my humble domicile, praying for seasonable 
weather, or holding an intrigue with the 
muses th*». only gipsies with whom'I have now 
any intercourse. As I am entered into the 
holy state of matrimony, 1 trust my face is 
turned completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a 
rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances, I hope that the little poetic licen- 
ses of former days will of course fall under the 
oblivous influence of some good-natured statute 
of celestial proscription. In my family devo- 
tion, which, like a good presbyterian, I oc- 
casionally give to my household folks, I am 
extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the 
errors of my youth," &c, and that other, " Lo, 
children are God's heritage," &c. ; in which 
last Mrs. Burns, who, by the by, has a glo- 
rious " wood -note wild" at either old song or 
psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Han- 
del's Messiah. 



No. LXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 21st June, 1789. 

DTAR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
c (Fusions, of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring? I know not of any par- 
ticular cause for this worst of all my foes be- 



setting me, but for some time my soul has 
been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere 
of evil imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 
I have just heard * * * * give a ser- 
mon. He is a man famous for his benevolence, 
and I revere him ; but from such ideas of my 
Creator, good Lord, deliver me ? Religion, 
my honoured friend, is surely a simple busi- 
ness, as it equally concerns the ignorant and 
the learned, the poor and the rich. That 
there is an incomprehensibly Great Being, to 
whom I owe my existence, and that he must 
be intimately acquainted with the operations 
and progress of the internal machinery, and 
consequent outward deportment of this crea- 
ture which he has made : these are I think, 
s^lf-evident propositions. That there is a 
real and eternal distinction between virtue and 
vice, and consequently, that I am an account- 
able creature ; that from the seeming nature 
of the human mind, as well as from the evi- 
dent imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in 
the administration of affairs, both in the natural 
and moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave — must, I 
think, be allowed by every one who will give 
himself a moment's reflection. I will go 
farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, 
excellence, and purity, of his doctrine and 
precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated 
wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, 
though, to appearance, he himself was the 
obscurest and most illiterate of our species ; 
therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion 
of goodness ; and whatever injures society at 
large, or any individual in it, this is my meas- 
ure of iniquity. 

What think you, Madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one whose good opinion I 
value almost next to the approbation of my 
own mind. 



No. LXXVII. 



I 



FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford Street, lQth June, 1789. 

DEAR SIR, 

I thank you for the different communica- 
tions you have made me of your occasional 



LETTERS. 



135 



productions in manuscript, all of which have I ance has had £reat success here; but I shall 
merit, and some of them merit of a different be glad to have your opinion of it, because I 
kind from what appears in the poems you i value your opinion, and because I know you 



have published. You ought carefully to pre- 1 
serve all your occasional productions, to cor- 
rect and improve them at your leisure ; and 
when you can select as many of these as will 
make a volume, publish it either at Edinburgh 
or London, by subscription : on such an oc- 
casion, it may be in my power, as it is very 
much in my inclination, to be of service to 
you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that, in your future productions, you should 
abandon the Scotish stanza and dialect, and 
adopt the measure and language of modern 
English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ kirk on the Green, with the tiresome re- 
petition of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
ears, and I should think not very agreeable to 
Scotish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Holy 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed 
the whole to them. The same is true of some 
of your other poems. In your Epistle to J. S 
— — — , the stanzas, from that beginning with 
this line, " This life, so far's I understand," 
to that which ends with — " Short while it 
grieves," are easy, flowing, gayly philosophi- 
cal, and of Horatian elegance — the language is 
English, with a few Scotish words, and some 
of those so harmonious as to add to the beauty ; 
for what poet would not prefer gloaming to 
twilight ? ■ 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and 
occasionally polishing and correcting those ver- 
ses, which the Muse dictates, you will, within 
a year or two, have another volume as large 
as the first, ready for the press : and this without • 
diverting you from every proper attention to 
the study and practice of husbandry, in which 
I understand you are very learned, and which 
I fancy you will choose to adhere to as a wife, 
while poetry amuses you from time to time as 
a mistress. The former, like a prudent wife, 
must not show ill-humour, although you re 
tain a sneaking kindness to this agreeable 
gipsy, and pay her occasional visits, which 
in no manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but teDds on the contrary, to 
promote her interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- 



are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who I un- 
derstand is your neighbour. If she is as hap- 
py as I wish her, she is happy enough. Make 
my compliments also to Mrs. Burns : and be- 
lieve me to be, with sincere esteem. 
Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXVIII. 
FROM MISS J. LITTLE. 

Loudon House, 12th July, 1789. 

SIR, 

Though I have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet, amongst 
the number of those who have read and ad- 
mired your publications, may I be permitted 
to trouble you with this. You must know Sir, 
I am somewhat in love with the Muses, though 
I cannot boast of any favours they have 
deigned to confer upon me as yet ; my situation 
in life has been very much against me as to 
that. I have spent some years in and about 
Eccelefechan (where my parents reside,) in 
the station of a servant, and am now come 
to Loudon House, at present possessed by 
Mrs. H : she is daughter to Mrs. pun- 
lop of Dunlop, whom I understand you are 
particularly acquainted with. As I had the 
pleasure of perusing your poems, I felt a par- 
tiality for the author, which I should not have 
experienced had you been in a more dignified 
station. 1 wrote a few verses of address to 
you which I did not then think of ever pre- 
senting ; but as fortune seems to have favour- 
ed me in this, by bringing me into a family, 
by whom you are well known and much es- 
teemed, and where perhaps I may have an 
opportunity of seeing you, I shall, in hopes 
of your future friendship, take the liberty to 
transcribe thera. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain. 
The pride o' a' our Scotish plain 
Thou gie's us joy to hear thy strain, 

And notes sae sweet : 
Old Ramsay's shade reviv'd again 

In thee we greet 

Lov»d Thalia, that delightful muse, 
Seem 'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 



136 



LETTERS. 



To all she did her aid refuse, 

Since Allan's day; 

Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 
To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm, 

Cassar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame ; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your Lament ; 
But glanc'd by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy, too, ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Burns' praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 
Or Sam, that critic most severe, 
A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear, 

They, in a rage, 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to paint ; 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint, 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop— with heart sincere 
To Heaven- present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
Dispens'd by an indulgent care, 

To Kobert Burns ! 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this, my hand trembles while I write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would ' 
most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
friendship ; yet hoping you will show yourself | 
possessed of as much generosity and good 
nature as will prevent your exposing what 
may justly be found liable to censure in this . 



measure, 1 shall take the liberty to subscribe 

myself, 

Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

JANET LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to honour 
me with a few lines from your hand, I would 
take it as a particular favour ; and direct to 
me at Loudon House, near Galston. 



No. LXXIX. 

FROM MR. ******. 

London, 5th August, 1789. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncom- 
mon abilities which you possess must render 
your correspondence very acceptable to any 
one. I can assure you I am particularly 
proud of your partiality, and shall endeavour, 
by every method in my power to merit a con- 
tinuance of y our politeness. 



When you can spare a few momenta, I 
should be proud of a letter from you, directed 
for me, Gerard-street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at 
the instance of your attachment to my late 
inestimable friend, Bob Eergusson,* who was 
particularly intimate with myself and rela- 
tions. While I recollect with pleasure his 
extraordinary talents, and many amiable quali- 
ties, it affords me the greatest consolation that 
1 am honoured with the correspondence of 
his successor in national simplicity and ge- 
nius. That Mr. Burns has refined in the art 
of poetry, must readily be admitted ; but not- 
withstanding many favourable representa- 
tions, I am yet to learn that he inherits his 
convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plentitude of fancy and attraction in 
him, that when I call the happy period of our 
intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in 
a state of delirium. I was then younger than 
him by eight or ten years, but his manner was 
so felicitous, that he enraptured every per- 
son around him, and infused into the hearts 
of the young and old the spirit and animation 
which operated on his own mind. 

I am, Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

• The erection of a monument to him. 



LETTERS. 



137 



No. LXXX. 

TO MR. ***** 
In answer to the foregoing, 

MY DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular 
season, and the indolence of a poet at all times 
and seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse 
tor neglecting so long to answer your obliging 
letter of the fifth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 
laborious concern in **** I do not doubt : the 
weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very, deservedly, indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance : 
but whether the remaining proprietors of the 
paper have also done well, is what 1 much 
doubt. The ****, so far as I was a reader, 
exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such an 
elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it 
possible to continue a daily paper in the same 
degree of excellence; but, if there was a man 
who had abilities equal to the task, that man's 
assistance the proprietors have lost 



When I received your letter, I was tran- 
scribing for ****, my letter to the magistrates 
of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their 
permission to place a tomb-stone over poor 
Fergusson, and their edict, in conseouence of 
my petition, but now I shall send them 
to * * * * Poor Fergusson ! If 
there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust 
there is ; and if there be a good God presiding 
over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou 
art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is distinction 
in the man ; where riches, deprived of all 
their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to 
their native sordid matter : where titles and 
honour are the disregarded reveries of an idle 
dream ; and where that heavy virtue, which 
is the negative consequence of steady dulness, 
and those thoughtless, though often destruc- 
tive follies, which are the unavoidable aber- 
rations of frail human nature, will be thrown 
into equal oblivion as if they had never been. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your pres- 
ent views and schemes are concentred in an 
aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; as your 
welfare and happiness is by no means a sub- 
ject indifferent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



nm. 



Of the many problems in the nature of 
that wonderful creature, Man, this is one of 
the most extraordinary, that he shall go on 
from day to day, from week to week, from 
month to month, or perhaps from year to year, 
suffering a hundred times more in an hour 
from the impotent consciousness of neglecting 
what we ought to do, than the very doing of it 
would cost him. 1 am deeply indebted to you, 
first for a most elegant poetic compliment ; * 
then for a polite obliging letter; and lastly, 
for your excellent poem on the Slave-trade J 
and yet, wretch that I am ! though the debts 
were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, 
I have put off and put off even the very ac- 
knowledgment of the obligation, until you 
must indeed be the very angel I take you for, 
if you can forgive me. 



Your poem I have read with the highest 
pleasure. I have a way, whenever I read a 
book, I mean a book in our own trade, Ma- 
dam, a poetic one, and when it is my own pro- 
perty, that I take a pencil and mark at the 
ends of verses, or note on margins and odd 
paper, little criticisms of approbation or dis- 
approbation as I peruse along. I will make 
no apology for presenting you with a few 
unconnected thoughts that occurred to me in 
my repeated perusals of jour poem. I want 
to show you that I have honesty enough to 
tell you what I take to be truths, even when 
they are not quite on the side of approbation ; 
and I do it in the firm faith, that you have 
equal greatness of mind to hear them with 
pleasure. 



I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me 
some books. They are not yet come to hand, 
but I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress in 
the path of fame ; and that you may equally 
escape the danger of stumbling through in. 
cautious speed, or losing ground through 
loitering neglect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

• See Miss Smith's Sonnet, page 96.— note. 
T 



138 



No. LXXXII. 



FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 



LETTERS. 

two montns older ; and likewise an excellent 
good temper, though, when he pleases, he has 
a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that 
his immortal namesake blew as a signal to 
take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 



7th August, 1789. 

DEAR SIR, 

I do not lose a moment in returning you 
my sincere acknowledgments for your letter, 
and your criticism on my poem, which is a 
very flattering proof that you have read it 
with attention. I think your objections are 
perfectly just, except in one instance. 



You have indeed been very profuse of 
panegyric on my little performance. A much 
less portion of applause from you would have 
been gratifying to me ; since I think its value 
depends entirely upon the source from whence 
it proceeds— the incense of praise, like other 
incense, is more grateful from the quality, 
than the quantity of the odour. 

I nope you still cultivate the pleasures of 
poetry, which are precious, even independent 
of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most 
valuable property of poetry is its power of 
disengaging the mind from worldly cares, and 
leading the imagination to the richest springs 
of intellectual enjoyment ; since, however fre- 
quently life may be chequered with gloomy 
scenes, those who truly love the Muse can 
always find one little path adorned with flow- 
ers and cheered by sunshine. 



No. LXXXIII. 



TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ellisland, 6th Sept. 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

t have mentioned, in my last, my ap- 
pointment to the Excise, and the birth of 
little Frank, who, by the by, I trust will be 
no discredit to the honourable name of Wal- 
lace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and 
a figure that might do credit to a little fellow 



I had some time ago an epistle, part poeti-c, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
Little, a very ingenious but modest composi- 
tion. I should have written her, as she re- 
quested, but for the hurry of this new busi- 
ness. I have heard of her and her com- 
positions in this country ; and I am happy to 
add, always to the honour of her character. 
The fact is, 1 know not well how to write to 
her : I should sit down to a sheet of paper that 
I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine- 
drawn letter-writing ; and except when 
prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, 
which happens extremely rarely, inspired by 
the Muse (I know not her name) that pre- 
sides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when 
necessitated to write, as I would sit down to 
beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th 
August struck me with the most melancholy 
concern for the state of your mind at pres- 
ent. 



Would I could "write you a letter of com- 
fort ! 1 would sit down to it with as much 
pleasure as I would to write an Epic poem of 
my own composition that should equal the 
Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort. A strong persuasion in a future 
state of existence ; a proposition so obviously 
probable, that, setting revelation aside, every 
nation and people, so far as investigation has 
reached, for at least near four thousand years, 
have in some mode or other firmly believed it. 
In vain would we reason and pretend to 
doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring 
pitch : but when I reflected that I was oppos- 
ing the most ardent wishes, and the most 
darling hopes of good men, and flying in the 
face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following lines, or if you have ever seen 
them ; but it is one of my favourite quotations, 
which I keep constantly by me in my progress 
through life, in the language of the book of 
Job, 

«« Against the day of battle and of war"— 

spoken of religion. 



LETTERS. 

'"Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 

"When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 



' I have been very busy with Zeluco. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it; and I have been revolving in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel -writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall, 
however, digest my thoughts on the subject as 
well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling per- 
formance. 



Farewell I 
mende / 



Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous com- 



LXXXIV. 
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 24th August, 1789. 

Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art ; 
If art it may be calFd in thee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses, 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passion rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
? Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health ? 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
Whether the muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
^ince I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more 1 mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return, 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ ! 
Happy wHle yet these hours remain, 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 



139 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK.— Ses Poems, p. 81. 

No. LXXXVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

9th December, 1789. 

SIR, 

I have a good while had a wish to 
trouble you with a letter, and had eertainly 
done it long ere now — but for a humiliating 
something that throws cold water on the 
resolution, as if one should say, " You have 
found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind 
friend indeed ; and that interest he is so kindly 
taking in your concerns, you ought, by every 
thing in your power to keep alive and 
cherish." Now though since God has thought 
proper to make one powerful and another 
helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged 
is all fair ; and though my being under your 
patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested your- 
self in my welfare, and principally as such 
still, you permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise-business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than I expected ; 
owing a good deal to the generous friendship 
of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the kind 
assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. 
I dare to be iionest, and I fear no labour. 
Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical 
to my correspondence with the Muses. Their 
visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of 
their acquaintance, like the visits of good 
angels, are short and far between ; but I meet 
them now and then as I jog through the hills 
of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks 
of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few 
bagatelles, all of them the productions of my 
leisure thoughts in my excise rides. v 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 
Grose the antiquarian, you will enter into any 
humour that is in the verses on him. Per- 



uo 



LETTERS. 



haps you have seen them before, as I sent 
them to a London newspaper. Though I dare 
say you have none of the solemn-league-and- 
covenant fire, which shone so conspicuous in 
Lord George Gordon and the Kilmarnock 
weavers, yet I think you must have heard of 
Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and 
his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! 
Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as 
one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the 
Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that am- 
biguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his 
numerous family are in imminent danger of 
being thrown out to the mercy of the winter- 
winds. The enclosed ballad on that business 
is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself 
at some conceits in it, though I am convinced 
in my conscience that there are a good many 
heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, al- 
ludes to the present canvass in our string of 
boroughs. I do not believe there will be such 
a hard-run match in the whole general elec- 
tion.* 



I am too little a man 10 have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and 
who * * * * is a 

character that one cannot speak of with pa- 
tience. 



Sir J. J. does ' 
I doubt his fate. 



what man can do ;" but yet 



No. LXXXVII. 



TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ellisland, 13th December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
ful of rhymes. Though at present I. am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the 

* This alludes to the contest for tl:e borough of Dum- 
fries, between the Duke of Queensberry's interest and 
that of Sii James Johnstone. E. 



state of which is most conducive to our happi. 
ness — or the most productive of our misery. 
For now near three weeks I have been so ill 
with a nervous head-ache, that I have been 
obliged to give up for a time my excise-books, 
being scarcely able to lift my head, much less 
to ride once a week over ten muir parishes. 
What is man? To-day in the luxuriance of 
health, exulting in the enjoyment of exist- 
ence ; in a few days, perhaps in a few hours, 
loaded with conscious painful being, counting 
the tardy pace of the lingering moments by 
the repercussions of anguish, and refusing or 
denied a comforter. Day follows night, and 
night comes after day, only to curse him with 
life which gives him no pleasure ; and yet the 
awful, dark termination of that life is a some- 
thing at which he recoils. 



" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret- 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter ; 

A little time will make us leam'd as you are. 



Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself 
in conscious existence ! When the last gasp of 
agony has announced that I am no more to 
those that knew me, and the few who loved 
me; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become 
in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in 
life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? 
Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there 
probability in your conjectures, truth in your 
stories, of another world beyond death; or 
are they all alike, baseless visions, and 
fabricated fables ? If there is another life, 
it must be only for the just, the benevolent, 
the amiable, and the humane : what a flatter- 
ing idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to 
God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish 
it ! There I should meet an aged parent, now 
at rest from the many buffe tings of an evil 
world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should I meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because 

he loved me and could serve me. Muir ; 

thy weaknesses, were the aberrations of hu- 
man nature, but thy heart glowed with every 
thing generous, manly, and noble ; and if ever 
emanation from the All-good Being animated 
a human form, it is thine .'—There should I, 
with speechless agony of rapture, again re- 
cognise my lost, my ever dear Mary ! whose 
bosom was fraught with truth, honour, con- 
stancy, and love. 



LETTERS. 



141 



My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ; 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



. Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which, time after time, have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that 
in thee " shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in 
a better world, where every tie that bound 
heart to heart in this state of existence, shall 
be, far beyond our present conceptions, more 
endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called 
nervous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and 
but to you I would not venture to write any 
thing above an order to a cobbler. You have 
felt too much of the ills of life not to sympa- 
thize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired 
more than half of any faculties he pos- 
sessed. Your goodness will excuse this dis- 
tracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely 
read, and which he would throw into the fire 
were he able to write any thing better, or in- 
deed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or West 
Indies. If you have gotten news of James or 
Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me 
know ; as I promise you on the sincerity 
of a man who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any 
thing could give me so much pleasure as to 
hear of any good thing befalling my honoured 
friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pawcre miserable. R. B. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

SIR; 

The following circumstance has, I be- 
lieve, been omitted in the statistical account 



transmitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, 
in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, 
because it is new, and may he useful. How 
far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic 
publication, you are the best judge. 



To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge is certainly of very great 
importance, both to them as individuals, and 
to society at large. Giving them a turn for 
reading and reflection, is giving them a source 
of innocent and laudable amusement ; and, 
besides, raises them to a more dignified de- 
gree in the scale of rationality. Impressed 
with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Riddle, Esq. of Glenriddle, set on foot 
a species of circulating library, on a plan so 
simple as to be practicable in any corner of 
the country ; and so useful as to deserve the 
notice of every country gentleman, who thinks 
the improvement of that part of his own 
species, whom chance has thrown into the 
humble walks of the peasant and the artizan, 
a matter worthy of his attention. 



Mr. Riddle got a number of his own ten- 
ants, and farming neighbours, to form them- 
selves into a society for the purpose of having 
a library among themselves. They entered 
into a legal engagement to abide by it for 
three years ; with a saving clause or two, in 1 
case of a removal to a distance, or of death. 
Each member, at his entry, paid five shil- 
lings ; and at each of their meetings, which 
were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their entry-money, and the credit 
which they took on the faith of their future 
funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books, 
at the commencement. What authors they 
were to purchase, was always decided by the 
majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of 
penalty, were to be produced : and the mem- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rota- 
tion. He whose name stood for that night first 
on the list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had 
his choice after the first ; the third after the 
second ; and so on to the last. At next meet- 
ing, he who had been first on the list at the 
preceding meeting was last at this ; he who 
had been second was first ; and so on through 
the whole three years. At the expiration of 
the engagement, the books were sold by 
auction, but only among the members them- 
selves ; and each man had share of the com- 
mon stock, in money or in books, as he choso 
to be a purchaser or not. 



142 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
•which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from 
him, and what with their own purchases, they 
hfid collected together upwards of one hundred 
and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, 
that a good deal of trash would be bought. 
Among the books, however, of this little lib- 
rary, were, Blair's Sermons^, Robertson's His- 
tory of Scotland, Hume's History of the Stuarts, 
The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Loun- 
ger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph Andrews, 
Sfc. A peasant who can read and enjoy such 
books, is certainly a much superior being to 
his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his 
team, very little removed, except in shape, 
from the brutes he drives.* 

Wishing your patriotic exertions- their so 
much-merited success, 

I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
A PEASANT. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ. 
OF HODDAM. 

Under a fictitious Signature, enclosing a ballad, 

1790, or 1791. 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of 
rank and fortune, and I am a poor devil : you 
are a feather in the cap of society, and I am a 
very hobnail in his shoes : yet 1 have the hon- 
our to belong to the same family with you, 
and on that score I now address you. You 

* This letter is extracted from the third volume of Sir 
John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598.— Tt was enclosed to Sir 
John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following letter, also 
printed there . 

" Sir John, I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. Burns, 
as an addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It con- 
tains an account of a small library which he was so good 
(at my desire) as to set on foot, in the barony of Monkland, 
or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its utility has been 
felt, particularly among the younger class of people, I 
think, that if a similar plan were established in the differ- 
ent parishes of Scotland, it would tend greatly to the 
speedy improvement of the tenantry, trades-people, and 
work-people. Mr. Burns was so good as to take the whole 
charge of this small concern. He was treasurer, librarian, 
and censor, to this little society, who will long have a 
grateful sense of his public spirit and exertions for their 
improvement and information. 

I have the honour to be, Sir John, 
Yourg most sincerely, 

ROBERT RIDDEL." 

To Sir John Sinclair qf Ulbslcr, Bart. 



LETTERS. 



will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim 
affinity with the ancient and honourable house 
of Kilpatrick : No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed 
be properly said to belong to any house, or 
even any province or kingdom , as my mother, 
who for many years was spouse to a marching 
regiment, gave me into this bad world, aboard 
the packet boat, somewhere between Donagh- 
adee and Portpatrick. By our common 
family, I mean, Sir, the family of the Muses. 
I am a fiddler and a poet ; and you, I am told, 
play an exquisite violin, and have a standard 
taste in the Belles Lettres. The other day, a 
brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air 
of your composition. If I was pleased with 
the tune, I was in raptures with the title you 
have given it ; and, taking up the idea, I have 
spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. Will 
you allow me, Sir, to present you them, as the 
dearest offering that a misbegotten son of 
poverty and rhyme has to give? 1 have a 
longing to take you by the hand and unburden 
my heart, by saying—" Sir, I honour you as a 
man who supports' the dignity of human na- 
ture, amid an age when frivolity and avarice 
have, between them, debased us below the 
brutes that perish !" But, alas, Sir! to me you 
are unapproachable. It is true, the Muses 
baptized me in Castalian streams, but the 
thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a Name. 
As the sex have served many a good fellow, 
the Nine have given me a great deal of pleas- 
ure, but bewitching jades ! they have beggar- 
ed me. Would they but spare me a little of 
their cast-linen ! were it only to put it in my 
power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! 
But the idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, 
" they toil not, neither do they spin ;" So I 
must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cra- 
vat, like the hangman's rope, round my naked 
throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep to- 
gether their many-coloured fragments. As to 
the affair of shoes, I have given that up. — My 
pilgrimages in my ballad-trade from town to 
town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes 
too, are what not even the hide of Job's Behe- 
moth could bear. The coat on my back is no 
more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It 
would be equally unhandsome and ungrateful 
to find fault with my old surtout, which so 
kindly supplies and conceals the want of that 
coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite; 
and though 1 got it literally for an old song, 
I would not exchange it for the best beaver in 
Britain. I was, during several years, a kind 
of factotum servant to a country clergvman, 
where I picked up a good many scraps of learn- 
ing, particularly in some branches of the 
mathematics. Whenever I feel inclined to 
rest myself on my way, I take nay seat under a 



LETTERS 

hedge, laying my poetic wallet on my one side, 
ind my fiddle-case on the other, and placing 
my hat between my legs, I can by means 
ot its brim, or rather brims, go through the 
whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. 



143 



However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if 
I would interest your pity. Fortune has so 
much forsaken me, that she has taught me to 
live without ber ; and, amid all my rags and 
poverty, I am a« independent, and much more 
happy than a monarch of the world. Accord- 
ing to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the 
several actors in the great drama of life, sim- 
ply as they act their parts. I can look on a 
worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified 
contempt ; and can regard an honest scavenger 
with sincere respect. As you, Sir, go through 
your roll with such distinguished merit, permit 
me to make one in the chorus of universal ap- 
plause, and assure you that, with the highest 
respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. XC 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, 11th January, 1790. 

DEAR BROTHER, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, 
though I have not, in my present frame of 
mind, much appetite for exertion in writing. 
My nerves are in a **** state. I feel that 
horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of 
both body and soul. This farm has undone 
my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous 
affair on all hands. But let it go to **** ! I'll 
fight it out and be off with it. 

"We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two, David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New-year-day evening I gave him the. follow- 
ing prologue,* which he spouted^ to his au- 
dience with applause— 

I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
•*** farm. I should respire more at ease. 

* Ihis prologue is printed in the Poems, p. 82. 



No. XCI. 



TO MRS. DUN LOP. 



Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 
It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you, Ma- 
dam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
better, and I now begin once more to share 
in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest ot 
my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and mer- 
cenary in my own eyes? When I pique 
myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is 
neither poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I 
am so flattered with the honour you have done 
me, in making me your compeer in friendship 
and friendly correspondence, that I cannot 
without pain, and a degree of mortification, 
be reminded of the real inequality between 
our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no 
more. After witnessing the dreadful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, 
and after weathering many hard gales of 
fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate ! I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth, but he was the 
son of obscurity and misfortune.* He was 

* Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use; a word o' 
Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which capacity ho 
attracted.the notice of Campbell, the author of the satire on 
Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then purser of the ship. 
Campbell took him as his servant, and delighted in giving him 
instruction ; and when Falconer afterwards acquired ce- 
lebrity, boasted of him'as his scholar. The Editor had this 
information from a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, w' o 
knew both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself pe 
ished soon after by shipwreck on the coast of America, 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 1/70 
or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Ur. Anderson to 
his wcrks, in the complete edition of the Poets of ■Great 
Britain, it is said—" Of the family, birth-place, and educa- 
tion of William Falconer, there are no memorials." On tie 
authority already given, it may be mentioned, that he -was 
a native of one of the towns on the coast of Fife : and that 
his parents who had suffered some misfortunes, removed 



144 



LETTERS. 



one of those daring adventurous spirits which 
Scotland, beyond any other country, is re- 
markable for producing. Little does the fond 
mother think, as she hangs delighted over the 
sweet little leech at her bosom, where the 
poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what 
may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an 
old Scotish ballad, which notwithstanding its 
rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the 
heart : 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land 1 was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die !" 

Old Scotish songs are, you know, a favour- 
ite study and pursuit of mine ; and now I am 
on that subject, allow me to give you two 
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which 1 
am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 
wish: 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung I 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young ! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language 
truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little godson* the small-pox. They are 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, 1 cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sees him acknowledges him to be the finest, 
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am 
myself delighted with the manly swell of his 
little chest, and a certain miniature dignity 
in the carriage of his head, and the glance of 
his fine black eye, which promise the undaunt- 
ed gallantry of an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 

to one of the sea-ports of England, where they both died 
soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, 
then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of 
which he entered on board a man-of-war. These lart 
circumstances arc, however, less certain. E. 

♦ The bard's second son, Francis. E. 



are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 



No. XCII. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28th Januanj, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardon- 
able to quote any one's own words ; but the 
value I have for your friendship nothing can 
more truly or more elegantly express than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only 
framed upon the chapter of accidents turning 
up against me, as it too often does, in the tri- 
vial, and, 1 may with truth add, the more im- 
portant affairs of life : but I shall continue 
Dccasionally to inform you what is going on 
among the circle of your friends, in these parts. 
In these days of merriment, I have frequent- 
ly heard your name proclaimed at the jovial 
board— under the roof of our hospitable friend 
at Stenhouse-mills ; there were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New Year, in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I 
shall say nothing ; but my acquaintance allege 
that when your name is mentioned, which 
every man of celebrity must know often hap- 
pens, I am the champion, the Mendoza, 
against all snarling critics and narrow .minded 
reptiles, of whom a few on this planet do 
crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black-eyed sister, I remain yours, &c. 



No. XCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, lZth February, 1790. 

I beg your pardon, my dear and much 
valued friend, for writing to you on this very 
unfashionable, unsightly sheet— 

" My poverty.but not my will consents. ' 



LETTEHS. 



14, 



But to make amends, since of modish post 1 
have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet 
of gilt which lies in my drawer among ray- 
plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a 
man of fashion, whom that impolite scoundrel, 
Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and 
Pine-apple to a dish of Bohea, with the scan- 
dal-bearing help-mate of a village-priest ; or 
a glass of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed 
yoke-fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I 
make a vow to enclose this sheet-full of epis- 
tolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt 
paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, 1 
have scarcely a spare moment. It is not that 
I will not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not 
more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace 
the Duke of ********* to the powers of ***** 
than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not 
that I cannot write to you ; should you doubt 
it, take the following fragment which was in- 
tended for you some time ago, and be con- 
vinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and 
circumvolute periods, as well as any coiner of 
phrase in the regions of philology. 



this mistake or misconduct is owing to a cer- 
tain stimulus, with us called ambition, which 
goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend 
other eminences, for the laudable curiosity oi 
viewing an extended landscape* but rather for 
the dishonest pride of looking down on others 
of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive 
in humbler stations, &c. &c. 



December, 1789. 



MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 



Where are you? and what are you 
doing ? Can you be that son of levity, who 
takes up a friendship as he takes up a 
fashion ; or are you, like some other of the 
worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of 
indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increas- 
ing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we 
have a portion of conscious existence, equally 
capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and 
rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, 
and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry 
whether there be not such a thing as a science 
of life ; whether method, economy, and fer- 
tility of expedients, be not applicable to en- 
joyment ; and whether there be not a want of 
dexterity in pleasure which renders our little 
scantling of happiness still less ; and a pro- 
fuseness and intoxication in bliss, which leads 
to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. There 
is not a doubt but that health, talents, char- 
acter, decent competency, respectable friends, 
are real substantial blessings : and yet do we 
not daily see those who enjoy many or all of 
these good things, contrive, notwithstanding, 
to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of 
them have fallen : I believe one great source of 



Sunday, 14i/i February, 1790. 
God help me ! 1 am now obliged to join 
" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am ***** past redemption, 
and what is worse, ***** to all eternity. I 
am deeply read in Boston's Fourfold State, 
Marshal on Sanctificaticn, Guthrie's Trial of a 
Saving Interest, &c. ; but " there is no balm 
in Gilead, there is no physician there/' for 
me ; so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust 
to " sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



. Tuesday, 16th. 

Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had 
just made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an hon- 
est man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a 
man that wishes to be a Deist; but, I fear 
every fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some 
degree be a Sceptic. It is not that there are 
any very staggering arguments against the 
immortality of man ; but like electricity/phlo- 
giston, &c. the subject is so involved in dark- 
ness, that we want data to go upon. One 
thing frightens me much : that we are to live 
for ever, seems too good news to be true. That 
we are to enter into a new scene of existence, 
where exempt from want and pain, we shall 
enjoy ourselves and our friends without sa- 
tiety or separation — how much should I be in- 
debted to any one who could fully assure me 
that this was certain. 



My time is once more expired. I willwrite 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns. And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship, be 
present with all their kindest influence, when 
the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meetl 
U 



146 LETTERS. 

I wish I could also make one.— I think we 
should be * * * * 



Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gen- 
tle,whatsoever things are charitable, whatso- 
ever things are kind, think on these things, 
and think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it was resolved to augment 
their library by the following books, which 
you are to send us as soon as possible : — The 
Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man 
of the World (these, for my own sake, I wish 
to have by the first carrier,) Knox's History 
of the Reformation; Rae's History of the 
Rebellion in 1715 ; any good History of the 
Rebellion in 1745 ; a Display of the Secession Act 
and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb ; Hervey's Me- 
ditations ; Beveridge's Thoughts; and another 
copy of Watson's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Master ton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me 
into your hands, and lately I wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from 
neither one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much, An Index to the 
Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Stat- 
utes now in force relative to the Excise, by 
Jellinger Symons ; I want three copies of this 
book : if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, 
get it for me. An honest country neighbour 
of mine wants, too, A Family Bible, the larger 
the better, but second-handed, for he does not 
choose to give above ten shillings for the book. I 
want likewise for myself as you can pick them 
up, second-handed or cheap, copies of Ot- 
way's Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, Dryden's, 
Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanburgh's, Cibber's, 
or any Dramatic Works of the more modern, 
Macklin, Garrick, Foole, Coleman, or Sheridan. 
A good copy too, of Moliere, in French, 1 
much want. Any other good dramatic authors 
in that language I want also, but comic au- 
thors chiefly, though T should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in 
no hurry for all, or any of these ; but if you 



accidently meet with them very cheap, get 
them for me. 

And now to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
Mrs. Hill ? I trust, if now and then not so 
elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and 
sings as divinely as ever. My good wife, too, 
has a charming " wood-note wild j" now could 
we four z 



I am out of all patience with this vile world 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene- 
volent creatures. ExcepHn a few scoundrelly 
instances, I do not think that avarice of the 
good things we chance to have, is born with 
us ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger and poverty, and 
want, that we are under a cursed necessity of 
studying selfishness, in order that we may 
exist ! Still there are, in every age, a few- 
souls, that all the wants and woes of this life 
cannot debase to selfishness, or even to the 
necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If 
ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposi- 
tion and character. God knows I am no 
saint ; I have a whole host of follies and sins 
to answer for : but if I could, and I believe 1 
do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all 
tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 



No. XCV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 19th April, 1790. 

I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a pa- 
per of the 'Lounger. You know my national 
prejudices. I had often read and admired the 
Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; 
but still with a certain regret, that they were 
so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas .' 
have 1. often said to myself, what are all the 
boasted advantages which my country reaps 
from the union, that can counterbalance the 
annihilation of her independence, and even 
her very name ! I often repeat that couplet of 
my favourite poet, Goldsmith— 

" States of native liberty possess 'd, 
The' very poor may yet be very bless'd/' 



Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
Jerms, " English ambassador, English court, " 
&c. And 1 am out of all paiience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
" the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in 
my conscience such ideas as, " my country ; 
her independence ; her honour ; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 
land -" &c. I believe these, among your men of 
the world, men who in fact guide for the most 
part and govern our world, are looked on as 
so many modifications of wrongheadedness. 
They know the use of bawling out such terms, 
to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their 
own private use ; with almost all the able 
statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, 
when they talk of right and wrong, they only 
mean proper and improper, and their measure 
of conduct is, not what they ought, but what 
they dare. For the truth of this 1 shall not 
ransack the history of nations, but appeal to 
one of the ablest judges of men, and himself 
one of the ablest men that ever lived — the 
celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a 
man who could thoroughly control his vices 
whenever they interfered with his interests, 
and who could completely put on the appear- 
ance of every virtue as often as it suited his 
purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the 
perfect man ; a man to lead nations. But are 
great abilities, complete without a flaw, and 
polished without a blemish, the standard of 
human excellence ? This is certainly the 
staunch opinion of men of the world ; but I 
call on honour, virtue, and worth to give the 
Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, 
this must be allowed, that, if you abstract 
from man the idea of an existence beyond the 
grave, then the true measure of human con- 
duct is proper and improper : Virtue and vice, 
as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, 
of scarcely the same import and value to the 
world at large, as harmony and discord in the 
modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense 
of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy 
unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, 
considering the harsh gratings and inharmonic 
jars, in this ill-timed state of being, it is odds 
but the individual would be as happy, and 
certainly would be as much respected by the 
true judges of society, as it would then stand, 
without either a good ear or a good heart 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
am quite in raptures with them ; I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the 
papers. The one I have just read, Lounger, 



LETTERS. 147 

No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
any thing I have read of a long time. 
M'Kenzie has been called the Addison of the 
Scots ; and, in my opinion, Addison would 
not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not 
Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly 
outdoes him in the tender" and pathetic. His 
Man of Feeling, (but I am not counsel-learned 
in the laws of criticism,) I estimate as the first 
performance in its kind I ever saw. Fron> 
what book, moral or even pious, will the sus« 
ceptible young mind receive impressions more 
congenial to humanity and kindness, generos- 
ity and benevolence; in short, more of all 
that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears 
her to others — than from the simple, affecting 
tale of poor Harley ? 



Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into 
life. Do not you think, Madam, that among 
the few favoured of Heaven in the structure 
of their minds (for such there certainly are,) 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, 
an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, 
in some degree, absolutely disqualifying for 
the truly important business of making a 
man's way into life. If I am not much mis- 
taken, my gallant young friend, A***** is 
very much under these disqualifications ; and 
for the young females of a family I could men- 
tion, well may they excite parental solicitude ; 
for I, a common acquaintance, or, as my 
vanity will have it, an humble friend, have 
often trembled for a turn of mind which may 
render them eminently happy— or peculiarly 
miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses 
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of excise-business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that may 
show how much I have the honour to be, 
Madam, yours, &c. 



No. XCVI. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh t 25th May, 1789. 

MY DKAR BURNS, 

I am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall makr a 
part of the vanity of my composition, to retaiu 



148 



your correspondence through life, 
markable your introducing the name of Miss 
Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill 
health : and I am sure it will grieve your 
gentle heart, to hear of her being in the last 
stage of a consumption. Alas ! that so much 
beauty, innocence, and virtue, should be 
nipped in the bud. Hers was the smile of 
cheerfulness — of sensibility, not of allure- 
ment; and her elegance of manners cor- 
responded with the purity and elevation of 
her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
she still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not seen. 1 weary much 
to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys 
the blessing of good health. All your friends 
here are well, among whom, and not the least, 
is your acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for my- 
self, I am well, as far as ******* will let a 
man be, but with these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable 
friend, J. Syme, give him for me a hearty 
squeeze, and bid God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon 
in Edinburgh ? 



LETTERS. 
It was re- i horrid business and bustle, and I shall fm> 



No. XCVII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Dumfries, Excise-office, 11th July, 1790. 



Coming into town this morning, to attend 
my duty in this office, it being collection-day, 
I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on 
his way to London ; so I take the opportunity 
of writing to you, as franking is at present 
under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, amid our 



prove them as well as 1 can ; but let my letter 
be as stupid as * * * *, as 
miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a 
hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law 
paper in the Douglas cause ; as ill-spelt as 
country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a 
scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer to it — 
I hope, considering circumstances, you will 
forgive it; and, as it will put you to no ex- 
pense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
tion about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, 
Zeluco. In fact you are in some degree 
blameable for my neglect. You were pleased 
to express a wish for my opinion of the work, 
which so flattered me, that nothing less would 
serve my overweening fancy, than a formal 
criticism on the book. In fact, 1 have gravely 
planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, 
Richardson, and Smollet, in your different 
qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, 
1 own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I 
may probably never bring the business to 
bear ; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu 
shows in the book of Job—" And I said, I 
will also declare my opinion." I have quite 
disfigured my copy of the book with my an- 
notations. 1 never take it up without at the 
same time taking my pencil, and marking with 
asterisms, parentheses, &c, wherever I meet 
with an original thought, a nervous remark on 
life and manners, a remarkably well turned 
period, or a character sketched with uncom- 
mon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- 
ing out my " Comparative View," I shall cer- 
tainly trouble you with my remarks, such as 
they are. 



1 have just received from my gentleman, 
that horrid summons in the book of Revela- 
tion — '* That time shall be no more I" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to tne fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written 
to the lady, with my grateful acknowledg- 
ments, and my own ideas of the comparative 
excellence of her pieces. I would do this last 
not from any vanity of thinking that my re- 
marks could be of much consequence to Mrs. 
Smith, but merely from my own feeling as an 
author, doing as I would be done by. 



LETTERS^ 



No. XCVIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Sth Aug. 1790. 



DEAR MADAM, 



After along day's toil, plague, and care, 
I sit down to write to you. Ask me not why 
I have delayed it so long? It was owing to 
hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; in 
short, to any thing— but forgetfulness of la plus 
amiable de son sexe. By the by, you are in- 
debted your best courtesy to me for this last 
compliment, as 1 pay it from my sincere con- 
viction of its truth — a quality rather rare in 
compliments of these grinning, bowing, scrap- 
ing times. 

"Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an 
intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my 
feelings a wound that I perceive will gan- 
grene dangerously ere it cure. He has 
wounded my pride ! 



No. XCIX. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



Ellislandf Sth August, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot 
sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

■ I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some 
thoughts of a country grannum at a family 
christening ; a bride on the market-day before 

her marriage ! * * * * 

* * * * » * * 

* * a tavern-keeper at an election 
dinner; &c. &c— but the resemblance that 
hits my fancy best, is that blackguard mis- 
creant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring 
lion, seeking, searching whom he may devour. 
However, tossed about as I am, if I choose 
(and who would not choose) to bind down 
with the crampets of attention the brazen 
foundation of integrity, I may rear up the 
superstructure of Independence, and, from its 
daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of 



fate. And is not this a 
voutly to be wished V 



149 

consummation de- 



" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share } 
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye! 

Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
Nor heed the storm that howls along the 6ky I" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 
introduction of Smollet's Ode to Independence : 
if you have not seen the poem, 1 will send it 
to you. How wretched is the man that hangs 
on by the favours of the great. To shrink 
from every dignity of man, at the approach of 
a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid 
all his tinsel glitter and stately hauteur is but 
a creature, formed as thou art — and perhaps 
not so well formed as thou art — came into the 
world a puling infant as thou didst, and 
must go out of it as all men must, a naked 



■www-vw^-v-t 



No. C, 



FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790. 

How does my dear friend, much I languish to 

hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ! 
With love of the Muses so strongly still 

smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written, 
But from age and infirmity indolence flows, 
And this, much I fear will restore me to 

prose. 
Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to 

speed, 
A man of integrity, genius and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth : 
A work miscellaneous, extensive and free, 
Which will weekly appear by the name of the 

Bee, 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you 

can. 
Entangled with business, and haunted with 

care, 
In which more or less human nature must 

share, 

* The preceding letter explains the feelings under 
which this was written. The strain of indignant invective 
goes on some time longer in the style which our Bard was 
too apt to indulge, and of which the reader has already 
seen to much. £. 



LETTERS 

the Muses will 



150 

Some moments of leisure, 
claim, 

A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 

The Bee, which sucks honey from every gay 
bloom, 

With some rays of your genius her work 
may illume, 

Whilst the flower whence her honey spon- 
taneously flows, 

As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, 
Sir, [visor ; 

We hope soon to hear you commence Super- 

You then more at leisure, and free from con- 
trol, 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your soul ; 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way, 

Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey. 

From verses though languid my thoughts must 
unbend, 

Though still I remain your affectionate friend, 
THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CI. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, Uth Octoher, 1790. 

I lately received a letter from our friend 
B*********, — what a charming fellow lost to 
society — born to great expectations — with 
superior abilities, a pure heart, and untainted 
morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed — 
still I am persuaded he is happy : not like 
( the gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the 
simplicity of rural enjoyment, unmixed with 
regret at the remembrance of " the days of 
other years."* 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover of 
your newspaper Mr. Wood's poem on Thom- 
son. This poem has suggested an idea to me 
which you alone are capable to execute — a 
song adapted to each season of the year. The 
task is. difficult, but the theme is charming : 
should you succeed, I will undertake to get 
new music worthy of the subject. What a 

* The person here alluded to is Mr. S., who engaged 
the Editor in this undei taking, bee the Dedication. E. 



fine field for your imagination ! and who is 
there alive can draw so many beauties from 
Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself? It 
is, by the way, surprising, that there does not 
exist, so far as I know, « proper scng for each 
season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, 
skating, and one autumnal song, Harvest 
Home. As your Muse is neither spavined nor 
rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, 
and return with a sonnet in your pocket for 
every season. For my suggestions, if I be 
rude, correct me; if impertinent, chastise me ; 
if presuming, despise me. But if you blend 
all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain 
of insincerity, then I am not thy 

Faithful Friend, &c. 






No. CII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is 
good news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good 
news from you, in return for the many tidings 
of sorrow which 1 have received. In this in- 
stance I most cordially obey the apostle — 
" Rejoice'with them that do rejoice," — for me, 
to sing for joy, is no new thing ; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rap- 
ture to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter— I literally jumped for 
joy — How could such a mercurial creature as 
a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt 
of the best news from his best friend ? I seized 
my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument 
indispensably necessary in my left hand, in 
the moment of inspiration and rapture ; 
and stride, stride — quick and quicker — out 
skipped I among the broomy banks of Nith, 
to muse over my joy by retail. To keep with- 
in the bounds of prose was 'impossible. Mrs. 
Little's is a more elegant, but'not a more sin- 
cere compliment, to the sweet little fellow, 
than I, extempore almost, poured out to him 
in the following verses. See Poems, p. 74.— 
On the Birth of a Posthumous Child. 



I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn o' Shunter, which you express in your 



XTSTTimS. 



1M 



former letter; though, by the by, you load 
me in that said letter with accusations heavy 
and many ; to all which I plead not guilty ! 
Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach 
me. As to printing of poetry, when you pre- 
pare it for the press, you have only to spell it 
right, and place the capital letters properly : 
as to the punctuation, the printers do that 
themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o y Shanter ready to send 
you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy 
to send by post. 



I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most 
zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon 
with an account of your good folks; if Mrs. 
H. is recovering, and the young gentleman 
doing well. 



No. cm. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 23d January, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of the good things 
of this life as is consistent with the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the 
way of tales. 

I have for these several months been ham- 
mering at an elegy on the amiable and accom- 
plished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get 
no farther than the following fragment, on 
which please give me your strictures. In all 
kiuds of poetic composition 1 set great store 
by your opinion : but in sentimental verses, in 
the poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic 
ever set more value on the infallibility of the 
Holy Father than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses.* 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu 

* Immediately after this were copied the first si 
of the Elegy given in p. 82, of the Poem3. 



No. CIV. 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 



17th January, 1701. 

Take these two guineas, and place them 
over against that ****** account of yours! 
which has gagged my mouth these five or six 
months ! I can as little w r rite good things as 
apologies to the man I owe money to. O the 
supreme curse of making three guineas, do 
the business of five! Not all the labours ot 
Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' three cen- 
turies of Egyptian bondage were such an in- 
superable business, such an ******** task! ! 
Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cous- 
in-german of hell ! where shaii I find force of 
execration equal to the amplitude of thy 
demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable 
ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every 
virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, 
implores a little—little aid to support his 
existence from a stony-hearted son of Mam- 
mon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a 
cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. 
Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, 
whose heart glows with independence, and 
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the 
neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under 
the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose 
ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of 
the fashionable and polite, must see in suffering 
silence his remark neglected, and his person 
despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot 
attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance 
and applause. Nor is it only the family of 
worth that have reason to complain of thee, 
the children of folly and vice, though in com- 
mon with thee the offspring of evil, smart 
equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the 
man of unfortunate disposition and neglected 
education, is condemned as a fool for his dis- 
sipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to 
want ; and when his unprincipled necessities 
drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhor- 
red as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice 
of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of 
the man of family and fortune. His early follies 
and extravagance are spirit and fire ; his con- 
sequent wants are the embarrassments of an 
honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the mat- 
ter, he has gained a legal commission to plun- 
der distant provinces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the 
spoils of rapine and murder; lives wicked 
and respected, and dies a ****** and a lord. — > 



152 I.ETTEHS, 

Nay, worst of all, alas, for helpless woman! 
the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the 
corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages 
of casual prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the charriot- wheels 
of the cwoneted Rip, hurrying on to the 
guilty assignation ; she who without the 
same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the 
same guilty trade. 



met with a picture of more horrible fancy than 
the following : 



" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 



Well ! Divines may say of it what they 
please, but execration is to the mind what 
phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices 
of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
respective evacuations. 



No. CV. 



FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Edinburgh, 12th March, 1791. 



DEAR SIR, 



Mr. Hill yesterday put into my hands a 
sheet of Grose's Antiquities, containing a poem 
of yours entitled, Tarn o' Shanter, a tale. The 
very high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, de- 
mands the warmest acknowledgments. Hill 
tells me he is to send off a packet for youlthis 
day; I cannot resist, therefore, putting on 
paper what I must have told you in person, 
had I met with you after the recent perusal of 
your tale, which is, that I feel I owe you a 
debt, which, if undischarged, would reproach 
me with ingratitude. I have seldom in my 
life tasted of higher enjoyment from any work 
of genius, than I have received from this com- 
position : and I am much mistaken, if this 
poem alone, had you never written another 
syllable, would not have been sufficient to 
have transmitted your name down to posterity 
with high reputation. In the introductory 
part, where you paint the character of your 
hero, and exhibit him at the alehouse ingle, 
with his tippling cronies, you have delineated 
nature with a humour 'and naivete that would 
do honour to Matthew Prior; but when you 
describe the infernal orgies of the witches' 
sabbath, and the hellish scenery in which they 
are exhibited, you display a power of imag- 
ination that Shakspeare himself could not 
have exceeded. I know not that I have ever 



But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ran cold within me : 



" A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft," 

And here, after the two following lines* 
" WV mair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the de- 
scriptive part might perhaps have been better 
closed, than the four lines which succeed, 
which though good in themselves, yet as they 
derive all their merit from the satire they con- 
tain, are here rather misplaced among the 
circumstances of pure horror.* The initiation 
of the young witch is most happily described 
— the effect of her charms exhibited in the 
dance on Satan himself— the apostrophe — 
" Ah ! little thought thy reverend graunie !" — 
the transport of Tarn, who forgets his situation, 
and enters completely into the spirit of the 
scene, are all features of high merit in this 
excellent composition. The only fault that it 
possesses, is, that the winding up, or con- 
clusion of the story, is not commensurate to 
the interest which is excited by the descriptive 
and characteristic painting of the preceding 
parts. — The preparation is fine, but the result 
is not adequate. But for this, perhaps you 
have a good apology— you stick to the popular 
tale. 



And now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll 
by an advice: you have proved your talent 
for a species of composition in which but a 
very few of our own poets have succeeded — ■ 
Goon — write more tales in the same style — • 
you will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine : for 
with equal wit, equal power of numbers, and 
equal naivete of expression, you have a bolder, 
and more vigorous imagination, 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 
Yours, &c. 



* Our Bard profited by Mr. Tytler's criticisms, and ex 
punged the four lines accordingly. 



LETTERS, 



153 



No. CVI. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Nothing less than the unfortunate ac- 
cident I have met with could have prevented 
my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. 
His own favourite poem, and that an essay in 
a walk of the muses entirely new to him, 
where consequently his hopes and fears were 
on the most anxious alarm for his success in 
the attempt : to have that poem so much ap- 
plauded by one of the first judges, was the 
most delicious vibration that ever trilled along 
the heart-strings of a poor poet. However, 
Providence, to keep up the proper proportion 
of evil with the good, which it seems is ne- 
cessary in this sublunary state, thought proper 
to check my exultation by a very serious mis- 
fortune. A day or two after I received your 
letter, my horse came down with me and 
broke my right arm. As this is the first ser- 
vice my arm has done me since its disaster, I 
find myself unable to do more than just in 
general terms to thank you for this additional 
instance of your patronage and friendship. 
As to the faults you detected in the piece, 
they are truly there : one of them, the hit at 
the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out : as to 
the falling off in the catastrophe, for the rea- 
son you justly adduce, it cannot easily be re- 
medied. Your approbation, Sir, has given 
me such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am 
already revolving two or three stories in my 
fancy. If I can bring these floating ideas to 
bear any kind of embodied form, it will give 
me an additional opportunity of assuring you 
how much I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CVII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Ellisland, 7th Feb. 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, 
not from my horse, but with my horse, I have 
been a cripple some time, and that this is the 
first day my arm and hand have been able to 
serve me in writing, you will allow that it is 
too good an apology for my seemingly un- 
grateful silence. I am now getting better, 
and am able to rhyme a little, which implies 
some tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that 



the most poetic genius is able to compose on 
the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea, of composing an elegy 
on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had 
the honour of being pretty well acquainted 
with her, and have seldom felt so much at the 
loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that 
so amiable and accomplished a piece of God's 
works was no more. I have as yet gone no 
farther than the following fragment, of which 
please let me have your opinion. You know 
that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, 
that any new idea on the business is not to be 
expected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea 
in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to 
this last, you will judge from what follows — 

(Here followed the Elegy, as given in the 
Poems, p. 82, with this additional verse :) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care: 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish 'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your godson, came safe. This last, 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As tc the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several teeth, 
and 3 et never had a grain of doctor's drugs in 
his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the " mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may hei 
" cruel wounds" be healed ! I have written 
thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler, you shall hear far- 
ther from, 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CVIII. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging a present of a valuable Snt{f-bor % 
with a fine picture o/Mary, Queen of Scots, 
on the Lid. 

MY LADY, 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident 
of having lately broken my right arm, could 
X 



154 



LETTERS. 



have prevented me/the moment I received your 
Ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, 
from returning you my warmest and most grate- 
ful acknowledgments. I assure your Ladyship 
I shall set it apart; the symbols of religion 
shall only be more sacred. In the moment of 
poetic composition, the box shall be my in- 
spiring genius. When I would breathe the 
comprehensive wish of benevolence for the 
happiness of others, I shall recollect your 
Ladyship : when 1 would interest my fancy in 
the distresses incident to humanity, I shall re- 
member the unfortunate Mary. 



No. CIX. 



TO MRS. GRAHAM, 



Or FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have in the 
enclosed ballad succeeded beyond my usual 
poetic success, I know not ; but it has pleased 
me beyond any effort of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account I enclose it par- 
ticularly to you. It is true, the purity of my 
motives may be suspected. I am already 

deeply indebted to Mr. G 's goodness ; and 

what, in the usual ways of men, is of infinitely 
greater importance, Mr. G. can do me service 
of the utmost importance in time to come. I 
was born a poor dog ; and however I may oc- 
casionally pick a better bone than I used to 
do, I know I must live and die poor ; but I 
will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry 
will considerably outlive my poverty ; and, 
without any fustian affectation of spirit, I can 
promise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me do 
any thing injurious to the honest fame of the 
former. Whatever may be my failings, for 
ailings are a part of human nature, may they 
ever be those of a generous heart and an in- 
dependent mind ! It is no fault of mine that I 

was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. G 's 

chiefest praise that he can command influence ; 
but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness 
of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall be mine 
to receive with thankfulness, and remember 
with undiminished gratitude. 



No. CX. 

FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

London, Sth February, 1791, 



I trouble you with this letter to inform 
you that 1 am in hopes of being able very soon 
to bring to the press, a new edition (long 
since talked of) of Michael Bruce's Poems. 
The profits of the edition are to go to his 
mother — a woman of eighty years of age — 
poor and helpless. The poems are to be pub- 
lished by subscription ; and it may be possible, 
I think, to make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, 
with the assistance of a few hitherto unpub- 
lished verses, which I have got from the 
mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these 
facts, it is to solicit the aid of your name and 
pen, in support of the scheme. The reputa- 
tion of Bruce is already high with every read- 
er of classical taste, and 1 shall be anxious to 
guard, against tarnishing his character, by 
allowing any new poems to appear that may 
lower it. For this purpose, the MSS. I am in 
possession of, have been submitted to the re- 
vision of some whose critical talents I can 
trust to, and I mean still to submit them to 
others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will 
take the trouble of perusing the MSS.— of 
giving your opinion, and suggesting what 
curtailments, alterations, or amendments, oc- 
cur to you as advisable? And will you allow 
us to let it be known, that a few lines by you 
will be added to the volume ? 

I know the extent of this request. It is 
bold to make it. But I have this consolation, 
that though you see it proper to refuse it, you 
will not blame me for having made it; you 
will see my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one 
in whose company, from his past appearance, 
you would not, I am convinced, blush to be 
found ; and as I would submit every line of 
his that should now be published, to your own 
criticisms, you would be assured that nothing 
derogatory, either to him or you, would be 
admitted in that appearance he may make in 
future. 

You have already paid an honourable tri- 
bute to kindred genius, in Fergusson — I fondly 



LETTERS. 



155 



hope that the mother of Bruce will experi- 
ence your patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription-papers cir- 
culated by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth- 
day, which I understand some friends in 
Scotland talk this year of observing— at that 
time it will be resolved, I imagine, to place 
a, plain humble stone, over his grave. This at 
least I trust you will agree to do — to furnish, 
in a few couplets, an inscription for it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible ? a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under 
cover to the Duke of A thole, London. 



P. S. Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago, from one of 
your poems, " O thou pale Orb;" If you have 
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
you. 



No. CXI. 
TO THE REV. G. BA1RD. 

In answer to the foregoing. 

Wh\ did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
such a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt the 
many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is 
heir to? You shall have your choice of all the 
unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this 
moment) I should have directly put you out of 
suspense on the subject. I only ask that some 
prefatory advertisement in the book, as well 
as the subscription-bills may bear, that the 
publication is sole].", for the benefit of Bruce's 
mother. I would not put it in the power of 
ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, 
that I clubbed a share in the work for mer- 
cenary motives. Nor need you give me credit 
for any remarkable generosity in my part of 
the business. I have such a host of peccadil- 
loes, failings, follies, and backslidings (any 
body but myself might pe^aps give some 



of them a worse appellation,) that by way of 
some balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
very limited power to a fellow-creature, just 
for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the 
vista of retrospection. 



No. CXII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 2$th February, 1791. 

I do not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If 
you are, the enclosed poem will not be al- 
together new to you. Captain Grose did me 
the favour to send me a dozen copies of the 
proof-sheet, of which this is one. Should you 
have read the piece before, still this will an- 
swer the principal end lhave in view ! it will 
give me another opportunity of thanking you 
for all your goodness to the rustic bard ; and 
also of showing you, that the abilities you 
have been pleased to commend and patronize, 
are still employed in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 
have in this the same advantage as Roman 
Catholics ; they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourn where 
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, 
very problematical : but I am sure they are 
highly gratifying to the living : and, as a very 
orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, 
says, " whatsoever is not of faith is sin ;" so 
say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, 
and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the 
giver of all good things, and ought to be re- 
ceived and enjoyed by his creatures with 
thankful delight. As almost all my religious 
tenets originate from my heart, I am wonder- 
fully pleased with the idea, that I can si ill 
keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly 
beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved 
mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun whilo 
I was busy with Percy's ReUques of English 
Poetry. By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledo- 
nian prejudice, obliged to you foryour glorious, 
story of Buchanan and Targe ! 'Twas an un- 



156 



LETTERS. 



equivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, 
giving Targe the victory. I should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not 



I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as 1 went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest; and one, or 
two I think, which with humble deference, 
I am disposed to think unequal to the merits 
of the book. I have sometimes thought to 
transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
so much of them as to point where they are, 
and send them to you. Original strokes that 
strongly depict the human heart, is your and 
Fielding's province, beyond any other novelist 
I have ever perused. Richardson indeed 
might perhaps be excepted ; but, unhappily, 
his dramatis persona are beings of some other 
world; and however they may captivate the 
inexperienced romantic fancy of a boy or girl, 
they will ever, in proportion as we have made 
human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper 
minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself 
ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. 
I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship 
by seniority. 1 have had an immense loss in 
the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the patron 
from whom all my fame and good fortune took 
its rise. Independent of my grateful attach- 
ment to him, which was indeed so strong that 
it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined 
with the thread of my existence : so soon as 
the prince's friends had got in, (and every 
dog, you know, has his day) my getting for- 
ward in the Excise would have been an easier 
business than otherwise it will be. Though this 
was a consummation devoutly to be wished, 
yet, thank Heaven, 1 can live and rhyme as I 
am ; and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if 
I cannot place them on as high an elevation in 
life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
so much of the Disposer of events as to see that 
period, fix them on as broad and independent 
a basis as possible. Among the many wise 
adages which have been treasured up by our 
Scotish ancestors, this is one of the best, Bet- 
ter be the head o' the commonalty as the tail o' 
the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you : so 1 shall give you a short 



poem on the other page, and close this with 
assuring you how sincerely I have the hon- 
our to be yours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book which 
I presented to a very young lady whom I had 
formerly characterized under the denomination 
of The Rosebud. See Poems, p. 71. 



No. CXIII. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 



London, 29th March, 1791 . 



DEAR SIR, 



Your letter of the 28th of February I re- 
ceived only two days ago, and this day I had 
the pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, 
at the Duke of Athole's, who had been so 
obliging as to transmit it to me, with the print- 
ed verses on Alloa Church, the Elegy on Cap- 
tain Henderson, and the Epitaph. There are 
many poetical beauties in the former : what I 
particularly admire, are the three striking 
similes from — 

"Or like the snow-falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford," 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious 
impressions of the country. And the twenty- 
two lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses," 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the 
objects belonging to the country in which the 
poet writes, and which none but a Scotish 
poet could have described, and none but a 
real poet, and a close observer of Nature 
could have so described. 



There is something original, and to me won- 
derfully pleasing, in the Epitaph. 

1 remember you once hinted before, what 
you repeat in your last, that you had made 



LETTERS. 

some remarks on Zeluco on the margin. I 
should be very glad to see them, and regret 
yon did not send them before the last edition, 
which is just published. Pray transcribe 
them for me ; I sincerely value your opinion 
very highly, and pray do not suppress one of 
those in which you censure the sentiment or 
expression. Trust me it will break no squares 
between us— 1 am not akin to the bishop of 
Grenada. 



157 



I must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent, in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, 
or who are perhaps themselves the subject ; 
but this ought to be done under promise not 
to give other copies. Of the poem you sent 
me on Queen Mary, I refused every solicita- 
tion for copies, but I lately saw it in a news- 
paper. My motive for cautioning you on this 
subject, is, that I wish to engage you to col- 
lect all your fugitive pieces, not already 
printed; and, after they have been re-con- 
sidered, and polished to the utmost of your 
power, I would have you publish them by 
another subscription : in promoting of which 
I will exert myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions I wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in Scotish sufficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives addi- 
tional zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the 
English ; and why should you write only for 
a part of the island, when you can command 
the admiration of the whole ! 

If you chance to Write to my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She must not judge of 
the warmth of my sentiments respecting her 
by the number of my letters ; I hardly ever 
write a line but on business ; and I do not 
know that I should have scribbled all this to 
you, but for the business part, that is, to insti- 
gate you to a new publication ; and to tell 
you, that when you have a sufficient number 
to make a volume, you should set your friends 
on getting subscriptions. 1 wish I could 
have a few hours' conversation with you — I 
have many things to say which I cannot 
write. If I ever go to Scotland, I will let you 
know, that you may meet me at your own 
house, or my friend Mrs. Hamilton's, or 
both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 



TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, lAth Feb. 1791. 



You must, by this time, have set me down 
as one of the most ungrateful of men. You 
did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intel- 
lectual powers of man, and I have not even so 
much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The 
fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as 1 was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, the 
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder 
over the performance with the look-out of a 
critic, and to draw up, forsooth, a deep- 
learned digest of strictures, on a composition, 
of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did 
not even know the first principles. 1 own, 
Sir, that, at first glance, several of your pro- 
positions startled me as paradoxical. That 
the martial clangor of a trumpet had some- 
thing in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sub- 
lime, than £he twingle-twangle of a Jew's 
harp ; that the delicate flexure of a rose twig, 
when the half-blown flower is heavy with the 
tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beauti- 
ful and elegant than the upright stub of a bur- 
dock ; and that from something innate and 
independent of all association of ideas ; — 
these I had set down as irrefragable, ortho- 
dox truths, until perusing your book shook my 
faith. — In short, Sir, except Euclid's Elements 
of Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel by 
my father's fire-side, in the winter evenings of 
the first season I held the plough, I never 
read a book which gave me such a quantum 
of information, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas as your " Essays on the Principles 
of Taste." One thing, Sir, you must forgive 
my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the 
work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- 
stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms ; but 
you have convinced me that they are quite 
compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print is my first 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

1 am, Sir, &c. 



158 



LETTERS, 



No. CXV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

12th March, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be worth your 
strictures, let me have them. For my own 
part a thing that I have just composed always 
appears through a double portion of that par- 
tial medium in which an author will ever 
view his own works. I believe, in general, 
novelty has something in it that inebriates the 
fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and 
fumes away like other intoxication, and 
leaves the poor patient, as usual, with an ach- 
ing heart. A striking instance of this might 
be adduced in the revolution of many a hy- 
meneal honey-moon. But lest I sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude 
on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up 
the page in my own way, and give you another 
song of my late composition, which will ap- 
pear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well as 
the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
When political combustion ceases to be the 
objects of princes and patriots, it then, you 
know, becomes the lawful prey of historians 
and poets.* 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear 
friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by 
the charms of your delightful voice, you would 
give my honest effusion to " the memory of 
joys that are past !" to the few friends whom 
you indulge in that pleasure. But I have 
scribbled on 'till 1 hear the clock has inti- 
mated the near approach of 

« That hour, o' night's black arch thekey-stanc." 

So, good night to you! sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! — A-propos, how 
do you like this thought in a ballad 1 have 
just now on the tapis? 

I look to the west when I gac to rest, 
That liappy my dreams and my slumbers may be; 

* Here followed a copy of the Song printed in p. fr)0 of 
11 1 c Poems. " liy yon castle wa'," &c. 



Forfar in the west is he I lo'e best, 
The Ind that is dear to my babie and me! 



Good night, once more, and God bless you ! 



CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 11th April, 1791. 

I am once more able, my honoured friend, 
to return you, with my own hand, thanks for 
the many instances of your friendship, and 
particularly for your kind anxiety in this last 
disaster that my evil genius had in store for 
me. However, life is chequered— joy and 
sorrow— for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. 
Burns made me a present of a fine boy, rather 
stouter, but not so handsome as your godson 
was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your 
little namesake to be my chef d'eeuvre in that 
species of manufacture, as I look on Tarn o'- 
Shanter to be my standard performance in the 
poetical line. "Tis true both the one and the 
other discover a spice of roguish waggery 
that might, perhaps, be as well spared : but 
then they also show, in my opinion, a force of 
genius, and a finishing polish, that I despair 
of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout 
again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at 
breakfast, as a reaper from the corn ridge. 
That is the peculiar privilege and blessing of 
our hale sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope 
for that highly polished mind, that charming 
delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the most be- 
witching charm in the famous cestus of 
Venus. It is, indeed, such an inestimable 
treasure, that where it can be had in its native 
heavenly purity, unstained by some one or 
other of the many shades of affectation, and 
unalloyed by some one or other of the many 
species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I 
should think it cheaply purchased at the ex- 
pense of every other earthly good ! But as 
this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely 
rare in any station and rank of life, and totally 
denied to such an humble one as mine : we 
meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure and 
face we can produce as any rank of life* what- 
ever; rustic, native grace; unaffected mo- 
desty, and unsullied purity ; nature's mother 



LETTERS 

wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a simplicity 
of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted 
with the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, 
disingenuous world; and the dearest charm 
of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposi- 



ng 

that were placed under his care. God help 
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, 
and such as my friend Clarke, when a booby 
father presents him with his booby son, and 
insists on lighting up the rays of science in a 



tion, and a generous warmth of heart, grateful fellow's head whose skull is impervious and 



for love on our part, and ardently glowing 
with a more than equal return ; these, with a 
healthy frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, 
which your higher ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman 
in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm 
has yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, 
how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his 
small-pox. May Almighty goodness preserve 
and restore him ! 

No. CXVII. 



TO 



I am exceedingly to blame in not writing 
you long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the 
most indolent of all human beings : and when 
I matriculate in the herald's office, I intend 
that my supporters shall be two sloths, my 
crest a slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak 
the foremost !" So much by way of apology 
for not thanking you sooner for your kind 
execution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem : but some- 
how or other it found its way into the public 
papers, where you must have seen it. 



I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
ROREET BURNS. 



No. CXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Uth June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal school-master there, and is at pres- 
ent suffering severely under the ****** f 
one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
ployers. .He is accused of harshness to * * * * 



inaccessible by any other way than a positive 
fracture with a cudgel: a fellow whom, in 
fact, it savours of impiety to attempt making 
a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the Al- 
mighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are the min- 
isters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin' 
burgh ; and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
some good fellows among the magistracy and 
council, * * * * * 

but particularly you have much to say 
with a reverend gentleman, to whom you 
have the honour of being very nearly related, 
and whom this country and age have had the 
honour to produce. I need not name the his * 
torian of Charles V.* I tell him, through the 
medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. 
Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace 
even his patronage. I know the merits of the 
ca\ise thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is 
falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, 
and ******. God help the children of de- 
pendence! Hated and persecuted by their 
enemies, and too often, alas! almost un- 
exceptionably, received by their friends with 
disrespect and reproach, under the thin dis- 
guise of cold civility and humiliating advice. 
O ! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride 
of his independence, amid the solitary wilds 
of his deserts ; rather than in civilized life, 
helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, pre- 
carious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! 
Every man has his virtues, and no man is 
without his failings : and curse on that privi- 
leged plain-dealing of friendship, which, in 
the hour of my calamity cannot reach forth the 
helping hand, without at the same time point- 
ing out those failings, and apportioning them 
their share in procuring my present distress. 
My friends, for such the world calls ye, and 
such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my 
virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my 
follies : the first will witness in my breast for 
themselves, and the last will give pain enough 
to the ingenuous mind without you. And 
since deviating more or less from the paths of 

• Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Cunningham. E. 



160 LETTERS 

propriety and rectitude must be incident to 
human nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my 
power, always from myself, and of myself, 
to bear the consequences of those errors ! I 
do not want to be independent that I may 
sin, but I want to be independent in my sin- 
ning. 



to me, I overlooked every obstacle, and de- 
termined to go ; but I fear it will not be in 
my power. A week or two's absence, in the 
very middle of my harvest is what I much 
doubt I dare not venture on. 



To return, in this rambling letter, to the 
subject I set out with, let me recommend 
my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance 
and good offices ; his worth entitles him 
to the one, and his gratitude will merit the 
other. I long much to hear from you— 
Adieu ! 

No. CXIX. 
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dry burgh Abbey, 17 th June, 1791. 

Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite 
Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of 
the bust of Thomson, on Edman Hill, on the 
22d of September; for which day, perhaps, 
his muse may inspire an ode suited to the oc- 
casion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving 
the Nith, go across the country, and meet the 
Tweed at the nearest point from his farm — 
and, wandering along the pastoral banks of 
Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspira- 
tion on the devious walk, till he finds Lord 
Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. 
There the commendator will give him a hearty 
welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure 
flame of native genius, upon the altar of Cale- 
donian virtue. This poetical perambulation 
of the Tweed, is a thought of the late Sir 
Gilbert Elliot's, and of Lord Minto's, fol- 
lowed out by his accomplished grandson, the 
present Sir Gilbert, who having been with 
Lord Buchan lately, the project was renewed, 
and will, they hope, be executed in the man- 
ner proposed. 

No. CXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LORD, 

Language sinks under the ardour of my 
feelings when I would thank your Lordship 
for the honour you have done me in inviting 
me to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in read- 
ing the card you did me the honour to write 



Your Lordship hints at an ode for the oc- 
casion : but who could write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thom- 
son, and despaired. — I got, indeed, to the 
length of three or four stanzas, in the way of 
address to the shade of the bard, on crown- 
ing his bust. I shall trouble your Lordship 
with the subjoined copy of them, which, 1 
am afraid, will be but too convincing a 
proof how unequal I am to the task. How- 
ever, it affords me an opportunity of ap- 
proaching your Lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to 
be, &c. 



No. CXXI. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Dryburgh Abbey, 16th September, 1791. 

SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson 
has been well received by the public ; and 
though 1 should disapprove of your allowing 
Pegasus to ride with you off the field of your 
honourable and useful profession, yet I can- 
not resist an impulse which I feel at this 
moment to suggest to your Muse, Harvest 
Home, as an excellent subject for her grate- 
ful song, in which the peculiar aspect and 
manners of our country might furnish an 
excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, 
for the employment of happy moments of lei- 
sure and recess from your more important oc- 
cupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in your 
native country, and were happily written in 
the dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home, 
being suited to descriptive poetry, except, 
where colloquial, may escape the disguise of 
a dialect which admits of no elegance or dig- 
nity of expression. Without the assistance of 
any god or goddess, and without the invoca- 
tion of any foreign Muse, you may convey in 
epistolary form the description of a scene so 
gladdening and picturesque, with all the con- 
comitant local position, landscape and cos- 



LETTERS. 

tume ; contrasting the peace, improvement, j 
and happiness of the borders of the once hostile j 
nations of Britain, with their former oppres- 
sion and misery ; and showing, in lively and 
beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a 
rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is na- 
turally disposed to overflow with gratitude in 
the moment of prosperity, such a subject 
would furnish you with an amiable opportunity 
of perpetuating the names of Glencairn, Mil- 
Ier, and your other eminent benefactors ; 
which, from what I know of your spirit, and 
have seen of your poems and letters, will not 
deviate from the chastity of praise that is so 
uniformly united to true taste and genius, 
I am, Sir, &c. 



161 



No. cxxm. 



TO MR. AINSL1E. 



MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? 
Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, re- 
gret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all the 

rest of the d d hounds of hell, that beset a 

poor wretch who has been guilty of the sin of 
drunkenness — can you speak peace to a 
troubled soul ? 



No. CXXII. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY LADY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself 
of the privilege your goodness has allowed 
me, of sending you any thing I compose in 
my poetical way; but as I had resolved, so 
soon as the shock of my irreparable loss would 
allow me, to pay a tribute to my late bene- 
factor, I determined to make that the first 
piece I should do myself the honour of send- 
ing you. Had the wing of my fancy been 
equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed 
had been much more worthy your perusal : as 
it is, I beg leave to lay it at your Ladyship's 
feet. As all the world knows my obligations 
to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to 
show as openly that my heart glows, and shall 
ever glow with the most grateful sense and 
remembrance of his Lordship's goodness. The 
sables I did myself the honour to wear to his 
Lordship's memory, were not the u mockery of 
wo." Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! 
— If, among my children, I shall have a son 
that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
child as a family honour, and a family debt, 
that my dearest existence I owe to the noble 
house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my Lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the light, 
I would, in some way or other, give it to the 
world.* 



# The poem enclosed is published,— See " The Lament 
for James Earl of Glencairn," Poems, p, 06. 



Miserable perdu that I am ! I have tried 
every thing that used to amuse me, but in 
vain : here must I sit a monument of the ven- 
geance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly 
counting every chick of the clock as it slowly 
— slowly, numbers over these lazy scoundrels 
of hours, who, d— n them, are ranked up 
before me, every one at his neighbour's back- 
side, and every one with a burden of anguish 
on his back, to pour on my devoted head — and 
there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me I 
my business torments me, and my sins come 
staring me in the face, every one telling a 
more bitter tale than his fellow.— When I tell 
you even * * * has lost its power to please, 
you will guess something of my hell within, 
and all around me. — I began Elibanks and Eli- 
braes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and un- 
finished from my listless tongue; at last 1 
luckily thought of reading over an old letter of 
yours that lay by me in my book-case, and I 
felt something, for the first time since I opened 

my eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — I 

begin to breathe a little, since I began to write 
you. How are you? and what are you doing ? 
How goes Law? A propos, for connexion's 
sake, do not address to me supervisor, for that 
is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the 
list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will 
be called out by and by to act as one : but at 
present I am a simple gauger, though t'other 
day I got an appointment to an excise divisiou 
of £25 per ann. better than the rest. My pres- 
ent income, down money, is £70 per a7in. 



I have one or two good fellows here whom 
you would be glad to kDow. 



162 



No. CXXIV. 



FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



Near May bole, 16th October, 1791. 



Accept of my thanks for your favour, 
with the Lament on the death of my much- 
esteemed friend, and your worthy patron, the 
perusal of which pleased and affected me 
much. The lines addressed to me are very 
flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural to 
suppose (and a strong argument in favour of a 
future existence) that when we see an honour- 
able and virtuous man labouring under bodily 
infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns of 
fortune in this world, that there was a happier 
state beyond the grave ; where that worth and 
honour, which were neglected here, would 
meet with their just reward; and where tem- 
poral misfortunes would receive an eternal 
recompense. Let us cherish this hope for our 
departed friend, and moderate our grief for 
that loss we have sustained, knowing that he 
cannot return to us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife ; and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 



FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



LETTERS. 

! mersed all the time I was in London, abso- 
lutely put it out of my power. But to have 
done with apologies, let me now endeavour to 
prove myself in some degree deserving of the 
very flattering compliment you pay me, by 
giving you at least a frank and candid, if it 
should not be a judicious, criticism on the 
poems you sent me. 



Edinburgh, 27th November, 1791. 



You have much reason to blame me for 
neglecting till now to acknowledge the receipt 
of a most agreeable packet, containing The 
Whistle, a ballad: and The Lament? which 
reached me about six weeks ago in London, 
from whence I am just returned. Your letter 
was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, 
where, as I observed by the date, it had lain 
for some days. This was an additional reason 
for me to have answered it immediately on 
receiving it ; but the truth was, the bustle of 
business, engagements, and confusion of one 
kind or another, in which I found myself im- 



The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion 
truly excellent. The old tradition, which yon 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Bac- 
chanalian composition of any I ever met with, 
and you have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
example, 

" Tlie bands grew the tighter the more they were wet, 

" Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn." 

" Tho' Fate said — a hero should perish in light : 

So up rose bright Phoebus, — and down fell the knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy in 
the discrimination of your heroes, and in 
giving each the sentiments and language 
suitable to his character. And, lastly, you 
have much merit in the delicacy of the pane- 
gyric which you have contrived to throw on 
each of the dramatis personce, perfectly appro- 
priate to his character. The compliment to 
Sir Robert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly 
fine. In short, this composition, in my opinion* 
does you great honour, and I see not a line 
or a word in it which 1 could wish to be 
altered. 

As to the Lament, I suspect, from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to me that you are 
more doubtful with respect to the merits of 
this piece than of the other ; and I own I 
think you have reason ; for although it con- 
tains some beautiful stanzas, as the first, 
" The wind blew hollow/' &c. ; the fifth, 
" Ye scatter'd birds" ; the thirteenth, " Awake 
thy last sad voice," &c. ; yet it appears to me 
faulty as a whole, and inferior to several of 
those you have already published in the same 
strain. My principal objection lies against 
the plan of the piece. I think it was un- 
necessary and improper to put the lamentation 
in the mouth of a fictitious character, an aged 
bard.— It had been much better to have 
lamented your patron in your own person, to 
have expressed your genuine feelings for the 
loss, and to have spoken the language of na- 
ture, rather than that of fiction, on the subject. 
Compare this with your poem of the same 
title in your printed volume, which begins, O 
thou pale Orb; and observe what it is that 



forms the charm of that composition. It is 
that it speaks the language of truth and of 
nature. The change is, in my opinion injudi- 
cious too in this respect, that an aged bard has 
much less need of a patron and a protector 
than a young one. I have thus given you, 
with much freedom, my opinion of both the 
pieces. I should have made a very ill return 
to the compliment you paid me, if I had 
given you any other than my genuine senti- 
ments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure ; and I beg you 
will believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXVI. 

TO MISS DA VIES. 

It is impossible, Madam, that the gener- 
ous warmth and angelic purity of your youth- 
ful mind can have any idea of that moral 
disease under which 1 unhappily must rank 
as the chief of sinners ; I mean a turpitude of 
the moral powers, that may be called a 
lethargy of conscience — In vain Remorse 
rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her 
snakes : beneath the deadly fixed eye and 
leaden hand of Indolence, their wildest ire is 
charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumber- 
ing out the rigours of winter iu the chink of a 
ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, could 
have made me so long neglect your obliging 
commands. Indeed I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 

so strongly am I interested in Miss D 's 

" fate and welfare in the serious business of 
life, amid its chances and changes; that to 
make her the subject of a silly ballad, is 
downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 
'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers? Why is 
the most generous wish to make others blessed, 
impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze 
that crosses the pathless desert? In my 
walks of life I have met with a few people to 
whom how gladly would I have said — " Go be 
happy !" I know that your hearts have been 
wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom 
accident has placed above you — cr worse still, 
in whose hands are, perhaps, placed many 
of the comforts of your life. But there! 
ascend that rock, Independence, and look 
justly down on their littleness of soul. Make 
the worthless tremble under your iudignation. 



LETTERS. iQg 

and the foolish sink before your contempt; 
and largely impart that happiness to others 
which, I am certain, will give yourselves so 
much pleasure to bestow." 



Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
wiping one tear from the e} e of pity, or of 
adding one comfort to the friend I love !— Out 
upon the world ! say I, that its affairs are ad- 
ministered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good 
Heaven ! what a reform would I make among 
the sons, and even the daughters of men !— 
Down, immediately, should go fools from the 
high places where misbegotten chance has 
perked them up, and through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native insignifi- 
cance, as the body marches accompanied by 
its shadow — As for a much more formidable 
class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do 
with them :— had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I would 
liberally fill ; and I would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive and generously 
love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among men, 
comparatively tolerable — but there is a deli- 
cacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view 
in which we can place lovely Woman, that 
are grated and shocked at the rude, capricious 
distinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood 
royal of life : let there be slight degrees of 
piecedency among them — but let them be all 
sacred. — Whether this last sentiment be right 
or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an ori- 
ginal component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ellisland, 17 th December, 1791. 

Man { thanks to you, Madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the 
mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling 
the representative of his late pareDt, in every 
thing but his abridged existence. 



164. 



LETTERS. 



1 have just finished the following song, glad of one thing ; since I finished the other 



which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, 
needs neither preface nor apology. 



Scene— A Field of Battle— Time of the Day, 
Evening — the wounded and dying of the vic- 
torious Army are supposed to join in the fol- 
lowing 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 
x Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell loves and friendships ; ye dear, tender ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant— he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark, 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save— 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands— 

O, who would not die with the brave ?* 



The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses, was looking over, with a musi- 
cal friend, M'Donald's collection of Highland 
airs, 1 was struck with one, an Isle of Skye 
tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or, The Song of 
Death, to the measure of which I have 
adapted my stanzas. I have of late com- 
posed two or three other little pieces, which, 
ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad im- 
pudent face now stares at old mother earth all 
night, shall have shrunk into a modest cres- 
cent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall 
find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu je 
vous commende ! 



No. CXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, Madam: I can 
only command starts of time: however, I am 

* This if. a little altered from the one given in p. 33. of 
the Poems. 



sheet, the political blast that threatened my 
welfare is overblown. I have corresponded 
with Commissioner Graham, for the Board had 
made me the subject of their animadversions : 
and now I have the pleasure of informing you, 
that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now 
as to these informers, may the devil be let 

loose to but hold ! I was praying most 

fervently in my last sheet, and I must not so 
soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
officious think what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
or thoughtless blabbings ! What a difference 
there is iu intrinsic worth, candour, benevo- 
lence, generosity, kindness— in all the chari- 
ties and all the virtues, between one class 
of human beings and another ! For instance, 
the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in 

the hospitable hall of D , their generous 

hearts — their uncontaminated, dignified minds 
— their informed and polished understandings 
— what a contrast, when compared — if such 
comparing were not downright sacrilege — 
with the soul of the miscreant who can deli- 
berately plot the destruction of an honest man 
that never offended him, and with a grin of 
satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his 
faithful wife and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam arrived safe. I 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the 
descendants of Sir William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted 
on bumpering the punch round in it ; and, by 
and by, never did your great ancestor lay a 
Suthron more completely to rest, than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. A-propos ! 
this is the season of wishing. May God bless 
you, my dear friend ! and bless me, the 
humblest and sincerest of your friends, by 
granting you yet many returns of the season ! 
May all good things attend you and yours 
wherever they are scattered over the earth! 



No. CXXIX. 



TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a 
young lady to you, and a lady in thefirstrank 



LETTERS, 

of fashion, too. What a task t to you— who 
care no more for the herd of animals called 
young ladies, than you do for the herd of 
animals called young gentlemen. To you — 
who despise and detest the groupings and 
combinations of fashion, as an idiot painter 
that seems industrious to place staring fools 
and unprincipled knaves in the foreground of 
his picture, while men of sense and honesty 
are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. 
Mrs. Riddle, who will take this letter to town 
with her, and send it to you, is a character 
that, even in your own way as a naturalist 
and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to 
your acquaintance. The lady too is a votary 
of the muses ; and as I think myself some- 
what of a judge in my own trade, I assure 
you that her verses, always correct, and often 
elegant, are much beyond the common run of 
the lady poetesses of the day. She is a great 
admirer of your book: and, hearing me say 
that I was acquainted with you, she begged 
to be known to you, as she is just going to pay 
her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I 
told her that her best way was, to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- 
darroch, to have you at his house while she 
was there ; and lest you might think of a 
lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls 
of eighteen too often deserve to be thought of, 
I should take care to remove that prejudice. 
To be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing : a 
failing which you will easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased with indulging in it ; 
and a failing that you will as easily pardon, 
as it is a sin which very much besets yourself; 
—where she dislikes or despises, she is apt to 
make no more a secret of it, than where she 
esteems and respects. 



I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that Fortune may [never throw your subsist- 
ence to the mercy of a knave, or set your 
character on the judgment of a fool ; but 
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of letters shall say, 
Here lies a man who did honour to science ! 
and men of worth shall say, Here lies a man 
who did honour to human nature ! 



No. CXXX. 
TO MR. W. NICOL. 

20th February, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian 



165 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, 
and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely 
is thy puddled-headed, rattle-headed, wrong- 
headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
supereminent goodness, that from the lumin- 
ous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, 
thou lookest benignly down on an erring 
wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy 
all the powers of calculation, from the simple 
copulation of units up to the hidden mysteries 
of fluxions : May one feeble ray of that light 
of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, 
straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as 
the meteor of inspiration, may it be my por- 
tion, so that I may be less unworthy of the 
face and favour of that father of proverbs and 
master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and 
magnet among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be 
it! 

Forme! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in 
bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name 
be the quotation of the wise, and my counte- 
nance be the delight of the godly, like the 
illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills?* As 
for him, his works are perfect : never did the 
pen of calumny blur the fair page of his repu- 
tation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwel- 
ling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, 
shine like the constellation of thy intellectual 
powers ! — As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, 
and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhal- 
lowed breath of the powers of darkness, and 
the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred 
flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound 
desires: never did the vapours of impurity 
stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean 
imagination. O that like thine were the 
tenor of my life ! like thine the tenor of my 
conversation ! then should no friend fear for 
my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weak- 
ness ! then should I lie down and rise up, and 
none to make me afraid.— May thy pity and 
thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of 

• Mr. Nicol. 



166 



LETTERS. 



wisdom and mirror of morality I thy devoted 
slave.* 



No. CXXXI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1792. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you far- 
ther. When 1 say that I nad not time, that, 
as usual, means, that the three demons, indo- 
lence, business, and ennui, have so completely 
shared my hours among them, as not to leave 
me a five-minutes' fragment to take up a peu 
in. 

Thank heaven, 1 feel my spirits buoying 
upwards with the renovating year. Now I 
shall in good earnest take up Thomson's 
songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him 
unkindly, and 1 must own with too much ap- 
pearance of truth. A-proposf Do you know 
the much admired old Highland air, called 
The Sutoi''s Dochter ? It is a first-rate favourite 
of mine, and I have written what I reckon 
one of my best songs to it. I will send it to 
you as it was sung with great applause in 
some fashionable circles by Major Robertson 
of Lude, who was here with his corps. 



crest. Two mottoes : round the top of the 
crest, Wood notes wild ; at the bottom of the 
shield, in the usual place, Better a wee bush 
than nae Meld. By the shepherd's pipe and 
crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a Stock and Horn, and a Club, 
such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay,' 
in Allan's quarto edition of the Gentle Shep- 
herd. By the by, do you know Allan? He 
j must be a man of very great genius— Why is 
he not more known ? — Has he no patrons ? or 
do " Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain, 
beat keen and heavy" on him? I once, and 
but once, got a glance of that noble edition of 
that noblest pastoral in the world ; and dear 
as it was, I mean, dear as to my pocket, I 
would have bought it; but I was told that it 
was printed and engraved for subscribers 
only. He is the only artist who has hit gen- 
uine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cun- 
ningham, is there in riches, that they narrow 
and harden the heart so? I think, that were I 
as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as 
the day; but as I have no reason to imagine 
my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I 
must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime 
quality to the possessor, at which the man, in 
his native poverty would have revolted. 
What has led me to this, is the idea of such 
merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches 
as a nabob or government contractor posses- 
ses, and why they do not form a mutual 
league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un- 
protected merit, and the gratitude and cele- 
brity of that merit will richly repay it. 



There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a 
present from a departed friend, which vexes 
me much. I have gotten one of your High- 
land pebbles, which 1 fancy would make a 
very decent one; and I want to cut my 
armorial bearing on it ; will you be so oblig- 
ing as inquire what will be the expense of 
such a business ? I do not know that my name 
is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; 
but I have invented arms for myself, so you 
know I shall be chief of the name ; and, by 
courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled 
to supporters. These, however, I do not in- 
tend having on my seal. 1 am a bit of a 
herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, 
my arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, 
seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe 
and crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in chief. 
On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lar.k 
perching on a sprig of bay tree, proper, for 

* This strain of irony was excited by a letter of ISlr. 
Nicol, containing good advice. 



No. CXXXTI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it, Madam — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as 
it is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, 
follies, indolence, &c, has continued to blame 
and punish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and hon- 
oured friend, that I could be so lost to grati- 
tude for many favours ; to esteem for much 
worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie 
of, now old acquaintance, and I hope and am 
sure of progressive, increasing friendship — as, 



LETTERS. 

for a single day, not to think of you — to ask 
the Fates what they are doing and about to 
do with my much-loved friend and her wide- 
scattered connexions, and to beg of them to 
be as kind to you and yours as they possibly 
can? 



A-propos ! (though how it is a-propos, I have 
not leisure to explain) Do you know that I 
am almost in love with an acquaintance of 
yours ? — Almost ! said I— I am in love, souse ! 
over head and ears, deep as the most un- 
fathomable abyss of the boundless ocean ; but 
the word Love, owing to the intermingledoms 
of the good and the bad, the pure and the 
impure, in this world, being rather an equi- 
vocal term for expressing one's sentiments 
and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred 
purity of my attachment. Know, then, that 
the heart-struck awe ; the distant, humble ap- 
proach ; the delight we should have in gazing 
upon and listening to a Messenger of heaven, 
appearing in all the unspotted purity of his 
celestial home, among the coar-ee, polluted, 
far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them 
tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, 
and their imaginations soar in transport- 
such, so delighting and so pure, were the 
emotion of my soul on meeting the other day 

with Miss L— B— , your neighbour, at M . 

Mr. B. wilh his two daughters accompanied 
by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries a 
few days ago, on their way to England, did 
me the honour of calling on me ; on which I 
took my horse (though God knows I could ill 
spare the time,) and accompanied them four- 
teen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the 
day with them. . 'Twas about nine, I think, 
when I left them ; and, riding home, I com- 
posed the following ballad, of which you will 
probably think you have a dear bargain, as it 
will cost you another groat of postage. You 
must know that there is an old ballad begin- 
ning with — " 

" My bonnie Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " unanointed, unanneal'd ;" as 
Hamlet says.— 

« O saw ye bonnie Lesley," &c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in 
Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of 
ours, notwithstanding it has many good things 
in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two 
or three people, who would be the happier 



167 

the oftener they met together, are almost 
without exception, always so placed as 
never to meet but once or twice a-year, 
which, considering the few years of a man's 
life, is a very great "evil under the sun," 
which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of 
man. I hope and believe that there is a state 
of existence beyond the giave, where the 
worthy of this life will renew their former 
intimacies, with this endearing addition, that, 
" we meet to part no more !" 



" Tell us ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you arc, and we must shortly be ?" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of 
them has ever thought fit to answer the ques- 
tion. " O that some courteous ghost would 
blab it out I" but it cannot be ; you and I, my 
friend, must make the experiment by our- 
selves, and for ourselves. However, 1 am 
so convinced that an unshaken faith in the 
doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by 
making us better men, but also by making us 
happier men, that I shall take every care that 
your little godson, and every little v creature 
that shall call me father, shall be taught 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals 
of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum 
from Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology— Amid 
all my hurry of business grinding" the faces of 
the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the Excise ; making ballads, and 
then drinking, and singing them ; and, over 
and above all, the correcting the press-work 
of two different publications, still, still I 
might have stolen five minutes to dedicate to 
one of the first of my friends and fellow-crea- 
tures. I might have done, as I do at present, 



168 LETTERS. 

snatched an hour near " witching time of 
night," and scrawled a page or two. 1 might 
have congratulated my friend on his marriage, 
or I might have thanked the Caledonian arch- 
ers for the honour they have done me (though 
to do myself justice, I intended to have done 
both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
now.) Well, then, here is to your good health ! 
for you must know I have set a nipperkin 
of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep 
away the meikle horned Deil, or any of his 
subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 



But what shall I write to you ? " The voice 
said, Cry ! and 1 said, What shall I cry ?"— 
O, thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wher- 
ever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a 
bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in 
the dreary glen through which the herd callan 
maun bicker in his gloamin route frae thefaulde! 
Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, 
to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in the soli- 
tary barn, where the repercussions of thy iron 
flail half affright thy self as thou performest the 
work of twenty of the sons of men, ere the 
cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog 
of substantial brose.— Be thou a kelpie, haunt- 
ing the ford or ferry, in the starless night, 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of 
the storm and the roaring of the flood, as thou 
viewest the perils and miseries of man on the 
foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — 
Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy noctur- 
nal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gran- 
deur; or performing thy mystic^ites in the 
shadow of the time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, portrajiwg on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of in- 
censed Deity ! — Come, thou spirit! but not in 
these horrid forms : come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations which thou breathest 
round the wig of a prating advocate, or the 
tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their 
tongues run at the light-horse gallop of clish- 
maclaver for ever and ever — come and assist 
a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt 
to share half an idea among half a hundred 
words ; to fill up four quarto pages, while he 
has not got one single sentence of recollection, 
information, or remark, worth putting pen to 
paper for. 



1 feel, I feel the presence of supernatural 
assistance ! circled in the embrace of my 



elbow-chair, my breast labours like the bloat- 
ed Sibyl on her three-footed stool, and like 
her too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, 
auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger- 
post in the mystic mazes of law ; the cadaver- 
ous paths of physic ; and particularly in the 
sightless soarings of school divinity, who 
leaving Common Sense confounded at his 
strength of pinion, Reason, delirious with 
eyeing his giddy flight; and Truth creeping 
back into the bottom of her well, cursing the 
hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance 
to the wizard power of Theologic Vision- 
raves abroad on all the winds. " On earth, 
Discord! a gloomy Heaven above opening 
her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
escapable and inexorable Hell, expanding 
its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of 
mortals!!!" — O doctrine! comfortable and 
healing to the weary, wounded soul of man ! 
Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres 
miserables, to whom day brings no pleasure, 
and night yields no rest, be comforted ! 
" 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred thousand 
that your situation will mend in this world ;" 
so, alas! the experience of the poor and the 
needy too often affirms ; and, 'tis nineteen 
hundred thousand, to one, by the dogmas of 
********, that you will be damned eternal- 
ly in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical; so enough, and more 
than enough, of it, Only, by the by, will you, 
or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, 
why a sectarian turn of mind has always a 
tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart? 
They are orderly : they may be just ; nay, 
I have known them merciful ; but still your 
children of sanctity move among their fellow- 
creatures, with a nostril-snuffing putrescence, 
and a foot-spurning filth ; in short, with a 
conceited dignity that your titled * * * * 
or any other of your Scotish lordlings of seven 
centuries' standing, display when they ac- 
cidentally mix among the many-aproned sons 
of mechanical life. I remember, in my plough- 
boy days, I could not conceive it possible that 
a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man 
could be a knave. — How ignorant are plough- 
boys ! — Nay, 1 have since discovered that a 
godly woman may be a ***** » — But hold — 
Here's t'ye again — this rum is generous An- 
tigua, so a very unfit menstruum for scan- 
dal. 



A~propos; How do you like, I mean really 
like the married life? Ah! my friend matri- 



LETTERS. 



169 



mony is quite a different thing from what your 
love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to 
he ! But marriage, we are told, is appointed 
by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of 
his institutions. I am a husband of older 
standing than you, and shall give you my 
ideas of the conjugal state {en passant, you 
know I am no Latinist : is not conjugal derived 
from jugum, a yoke?) Well, then the scale of 
good wifeship I divide into ten parts :— Good- 
nature, four ; Good Sense, two ; Wit, one ; 
Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent 
eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage (I would 
add a fine waist too, but that is soon spoiled 
you know,) all these, one ; as for the other 
qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, 
such' as Fortune, Connexions, Education, 
(I mean education extraordinary,) Family 
Blood, &c, divide the two remaining de- 
grees among them as you please ; only re- 
member that all these minor properties must 
be expressed by fractions, for there is not any 
one of them in the aforesaid scale, entitled to 
the dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — 

how I lately met with Miss L B , the 

most beautiful, elegant woman in the world — 
how I accompanied her and her father's family 
fifteen miles on their journey out of pure 
devotion, to admire the loveliness of the 
works of God, in such an unequalled display 
of them — how, in galloping home at night, I 
made a ballad on her, of which these two 
stanzas made a part — 



Thou, bonnie L— — , art a queen, 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie JL , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scathe 
"Whatever wad belang thee ! 

He'd loo£ into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee !" 



— Behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be 
read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy be- 
loved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more 
convenient season. 



Now, to thee, and to thy before designed 
fcosom-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest influences of the stars, and the 
living streams which flow from the fountains 
of life, and by the tree of life, for ever and 
ever! Amen! 



No. CXXXIV. 
to Mrs. dunlop. 

Dumfries, 2ith September, 1792. 
I have this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa- 
tion. Good God ! a heart-weunded, help- 
less young woman— in a strange, foreign land, 
and that land convulsed with every horror 
that can harrow the human feelings— sick- 
looking, longing for a comforter, but find- 
ing none — a mother's feelings too — but it is 
too much : He who wounded (He only can) 
may He heal !* 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new 
acquisition to his family, * * * * 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as 
a farmer. "lis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- 
conscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird 
farming his own property ; sowing his own 
corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brit- 
tle weather, in gladness : knowing that none 
can say unto him, " what dost thou !" — fatten- 
ing his herds ; shearing his flocks; rejoicing 
at Christmas : and begetting sons and daugh- 
ters, until he be the venerated, gray-haired 
leader of a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! — 
But devil take the life of reaping the fruits 
that another must eat ! 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me, when 1 make my Ayrshire 

visit. I cannot leave Mrs. B until her 

nine months' race is run, which may perhaps 
be in three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determined to make me the patriarchal leader 
of a band. However, if Heaven will be so 
obliging as to let me have them in propor 
tion of three boys to one girl, I shall be so 
much the more pleased. I hope, if I am 
spared with them, to show a set of boys that 
will do honour to my cares and name ; but 
am not equal to the task of rearing girls 
Besides, I. am too poor ,• a girl should always 
have a fortune. — A-propos ; your little godson 
is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. 
He, though two years younger, has completely 
mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the 
mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has 
a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

* This much lamented lady was gone to the south < f 
France with her infant 6on, where the died toon after. 

z 



170 



LETTERS. 



You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart : you can 
excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been written on the Death of 
Mrs. H , her Daughter. 

I had been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
What shall I say to comfort you, my much- 
valued, much afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
with you ; consolation I have none to offer, 
except that which religion holds out to the chil- 
dren of affliction — Children of affliction f— how 
just the expression ! and like every other fam- 
ily, they have matters among them, which they 
hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important 
manner, of which the world has not, nor cares 
to have, any idea. The world looks indiffer- 
ently on, makes the passing remark, and pro- 
ceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years 1 What is it but to drag existence until 
cur joys gradually expire, and leave us in a 
night of misery ; like the gloom which blots 
out the stars one by one, from the face of 
night, and leaves us without a ray of comfort 
in the howling waste ! 



I am interrupted, and must leave off. 
shall scon hear from me again. 



You 



No. CXXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I shall be in Ayrshire, I think next week ; 
and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-House. 

Alar., Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world that we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I 
have not passed half the ordinary term of an 
old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over 
the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see 



some names that I have known, and which I 
and other acquaintances, little thought to meet 
with there so soon. Every other instance of 
the mortality of our kind makes us cast an 
anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncer- 
tainty, and shudder with apprehension for our 
own fate. But of how different an impor- 
tance are the lives of different individuals ? 
Nay, of what importance is one period of the 
same life more than another? A few years 
ago, I could have lain down in -the dust, 
" careless of the voice of the morning;" and 
now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exer- 
tions, lose both their " staff and shield." By 
the way, these helpless ones have lately got 

an addition, Mrs. B having given me a 

fine girl since I wrote you. There is a 
charming passage in Thomson's Edward and 
Eleanora — 

'• The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, pe- 
culiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my 
dear Madam, to your present frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting — Heavens! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue!" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as 
ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid 
the struggle of this turbulent existence. ( t 
these is one, a very favourite one, from his 
Alfred : 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to 
you formerly,' as indeed when I write from 
the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repeti- 
tions. The compass of the heart, in the musi- 
cal style of expression, is much more bounded 
than that of the imagination ; so the notes of 
the former are extremely apt to run into one 
another; but in return for the paucity of its 
compass, its few notes are much more sweet. 
I must still give you another quotation, which 
I am almost sure I have given you before, but 
I cannot resist the temptation. The subject is 



'*>' 



LETTERS. 



religion— speaking of its importance to man- 
kind, the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; 

V> hen friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart j 

"Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 



I see you are in for a double postage, so I 
shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We, in 
this country here, have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of 
your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a 
good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I am a placeman, you know : a very humble 
one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much 
so as to gag me. What my private sen- 
timents are, you will find out without an in- 
terpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view, 
and the other day, for a pretty Actress's bene- 
fit-night, I wrote an Address, which I will 
give on the-other page, called The Rights of 
Woman.* 

I shall have the honour of receiving your 
criticisms in person at Dunlop. 



171 



No. CXXXVII. 



TO MISS B*****, OF YORK. 

2l$t March, 1792. 



Among many things for which I envy 
those hale, long-lived old fellows before the 
flood, is this in particular, that when they 
met with any body after their own heart, 
they had a charming long prospect of many, 
many happy meetings with them in after- 
life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of 
our fleeting existence, when you, now and 
then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an 
individual whose acquaintance is a real ac- 
quisition, there are all the probabilities 
against you, that you shall never meet with 
that valued character more. On the other 

* See Poems, p. 83. 



hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is 
none of the least of the miseries belonging tc 
it, that if there is any miscreant whom you 
hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill 
run of the chances shall be so against you, 
that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings 
of life, pop, at some unlucky corner eternally 
comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow 
your indignation or contempt a moment's re- 
pose. As I am a sturdy believer in the 
powers of darkness, I take these to be the 
doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and 1 make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respec- 
ting Miss B ; how much I admired her 

abilities, and valued her worth, and how 
very fortunate I thought myself in her ac- 
quaintance. For this last reason, my dear 
Madam, I must entertain no hopes of 
the very great pleasure of meeting with 
you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you 
the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the 
real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that 
E may have the opportunity of declaring with 
how much respectful esteem 1 have the 
onour to be, &c. 



No. CXXXVIII, 
TO MISS C****. 



August, 1793. 



Some rather unlooked-for accidents have 
prevented my doing myself the honour of a 
second visit to Arbeigland, as I was so hos- 
pitably invited, and so positively meant to 
have done. — However, I still hope to have 
that pleasure before the busy months of har- 
vest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the pleasure I have received 
in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in 
the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay 
one with an old song, is a proverb, whose 
force, you, Madam, I know, will not allow. 
What is said of illustrious descent is, 1 be- 
lieve, equally true of a talent for poetry, none 
ever despised it who had pretensions to it. 
The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe 
often employ my thoughts when 1 am disposed 



172 

to be melancholy. There is not among all the 
martyrologies that ever were penned, so rue- 
ful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In 
the comparative view of wretches, the criterion 
is not what they are doomed to suffer, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of 
our kind, give him a stronger imagination and 
a more delicate sensibility, which between 
them will ever engender a more ungovernable 
set of passions than are the usual lot of man ; 
implant;in him an irresistible impulse to some 
idle vagary, such as arranging wild flowers 
in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshop- 
per to his haunt by his chirping song, watch- 
ing the frisks of the little minnows, in the 
sunny pool, or huntiug after the intrigues of 
butterflies— in sfejrt, send him adrift after some 
pursuit which shall eternally mislead him 
from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him 
with a keener relish than any man living for 
the pleasures that lucre can purchase : lastly, 
fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing 
on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, 
and you have created a wight nearly as miser- 
able as a poet. To you, Madam, I need not 
recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows 
to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
witching poetry is like bewitching woman; 
she has in all ages been accused of mislead- 
ing mankind from the councils of wisdom and 
the paths of prudence, involving them in diffi- 
culties, baiting them with poverty, branding 
them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet where is the man 
but must own that all our happiness on earth 
is not worthy the name — that even the holy 
hermit's solitary prospect of paradisaical bliss 
is but the glitter of a northern sun rising over 
a frozen region, compared with the many 
pleasures, the nameless raptures that we owe 
to the lovely Queen of the heart of Man ! 



LETTERS. 



„V«.-».T.W. 



No. CXXXIX. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

December, 1793. 

SIR, 

It is said that we take the greatest liber- 
ties with our greatest friends, and I pay my- 
self a very high compliment in the manner in 
which I am going to apply the remark. I have 
owed you money longer than ever I owed to 
any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here 
are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shil- 
ling to man— or woman either. But for these 



damned dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* 1 had 
done myself the honour to have waited on you 
long ago. Independent of the obligations 
your hospitality has laid me under ; the con- 
sciousness of your superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
much as I could ever make head against ; but 
to owe you money too, was more than I could 
face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a 
collection of Scots songs I have some years 
been making: I send you a perusal of what 
I have got together. I could not conveniently 
spare them above five or six days, and five oi 
six glances of them will probably more than 
suffice you. A very few of them are my own. 
When you are tired of them, please leave 
them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. 
There is not another copy of the collection in 
the world ; and 1 should be sorry that any 
unfortunate negligence should deprive me of 
what has cost me a good deal of pains. 



No. CXL. 
TO MRS. R*****, 

Who was to bespeak a Play one Evening at the 
Dumfries Theatre. 

I am thinking to send my Address to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of 
you, my dear Madam, to give us, The Won- 
der, a Woman keeps a Secret ! to which please 
add, The Spoilt Child— you will highly oblige 
me by so doing. 

Ah ! what an enviable creature ybij 
are ! There now, this cursed gloomy blue. 
devil day, you are going to a party of choice 
spirits — 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

But as you rejoice with them that do re- 

* Scotish Bank Notes. 



LETTERS- 



173 



joice, do also remember to weep with them 
that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 



To a Lady, in favour of a Player's Benefit. 



You were so very good as to promise me 
to honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first ! the play a most interesting one ! The 
Way to keep him. I have the pleasure to know 
Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gener- 
ally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage ; he is a 
poor and modest man : claims which from 
their very silence have the more forcible power 
on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that 
from the indolence of those who have the 
good things of this life in their gift, too often 
does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that 
boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble 
want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the 
author and director of Nature, by far the most 
enviable is — to be able " to wipe away all 
tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, 
sordid wretches are they, however chance 
may have loaded them with wealth, who go 
to their graves, to their magnificent mauso- 
leums, with hardly the consciousness of having 
made one poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came 
to beg, not to preach. 



No. CXLII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



1794. 



I am extremely obliged to you for your 
kind mention of my interests, in a letter which 
Mr. S*** showed me. At present, my situa=- 
tion in life must be in a great measure sta- 
tionary, at least for two or three years. The 
statement is this — I am on the supervisors' 
list ; and as we come on there by precedency, 
in two or three years I shall be at the head 
of that list, and be appointed of course — then, a 
Friend might be of service to me in getting 
me into a place of the kingdom which I would 



like. A supervisor's income varies from about 
a hundred and twenty to two hundred a-year ; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, and 
would be nearly a Complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit. The moment I 
am appointed supervisor in the common 
routine, I may be nominated on the Collector's 
list ; and this is always a business purely of 
political patronage. A collectorship varies 
much from better than two hundred a-year to 
near a thousand. They also come forward by 
precedency on the list, and have, besides a 
handsome income, a life of complete leisure. 
A life of literary leisure, with a decent com- 
petence, is the summit of my wishes. It 
would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me, to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependent situation on 
your benevolence. If, in my progress in life, 
an opening should occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with the 
same frankness and sincerity as I now do my- 
self the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. R***** 

DEAR MADAM, 

I meant to have called on you yester- 
night ; but as I edged up to your box-door, 
the first object which greeted my view was 
one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting 
like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian 
fruit. On the conditions and capitulations 
you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make 
my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your 
box-furniture on Tuesday, when we may ar- 
range the business of the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, in- 
cessantly offer at your shrine— a shrine, how 
far exalted above such adoration — permit me, 
were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the 
honest tribute of a warm heart and an inde- 
pendent mind ; and to assure you that I am, 
thou most amiable, and most accomplished of 
thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, ami 
fervent regard, thine, &c. 



174 



LETTERS. 



No. CXLIV. 



TO THE SAME. 

1 will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our cursed revenue 
business, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment 
for a poet's pen ! There is a species of the 
human genus that I call the gin-horse class: 
what enviable dogs they are ! Round, and 
round, and round they go — Mundell's ox, that 
drives his cotton-mill, is their exact prototype 
— without an idea or wish beyond their circle ; 
fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and con- 
tented: while here I sit, altogether Novem- 

berish, a d melange of fretfulness and 

melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse 
me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in 
torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering 
round her tenement, like a wild finch caught 
amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust 
into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when 
he foretold — " And behold, on whatsoever 
this man doth set his heart, it shall not pros- 
per!" If my resentment is awakened, it is 
sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and 
if— 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more fre- 
quent visitors of R. B. 



No. CXLV. 

TO THE SAME. 

1 have this moment got the song from S***, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me now I 
lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to 
have any, the smallest opportunity of oblig- 
ing you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of 
his judge, about to pronounce the sentence of 
death on him, could only have envied my feel- 



ings and situation. But I hate the theme, and 
never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 

pay Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, 

and appreciate-her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom I have seen approach 
her. 



No. CLXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice in your composi- 
tion, and you have as often disavowed it: 
even, perhaps, while your opinions were, at 
the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
any thing estrange me from a friend such as 
you ?— No ! To-morrow 1 shall have the hon- 
our of waiting on you. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women : even with all thy little 
caprices ! 



No. CXLVIL 



TO THE SAME. 



I return your common-place book : \ 
have perused it with much pleasure, and 
would have continued my criticisms ; but as 
it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, 
his strictures must lo3e their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To 
admire, esteem, and prize you, as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of 
friends — if these are crimes, I am the most 
offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly confidence, now to 
find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn — is 
a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, 
however, some kind of miserable good luck, 
that while de haut-en-bas rigour may depress 
an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a 
tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his 
bosom, which, though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to 
blunt their poignancy. 



LETTERS. 

Willi the profounde3t respect for your abili- f 
ties ; the most sincere esteem and ardent re- 
gard for your gentle heart and amiable man- 
ners ; and the most fervent wish and prayer i 
for your welfare, peace, and bliss, 1 have the I 
honour to be, Madam, your most devoted, ' 
humble servant. 



173 



No. CXLVIII. 
TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that, among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song which I com- 
posed since I saw you, and I am going to give 
you the history of it. Do you know, that 
among much that 1 admire in the characters 
and manners of those great folks whom I 
have now the honour to call my acquaint- 
ances, the O***** family, there is nothing 
charms me more than Mr. O/s unconcealable 
attachment to that incomparable woman. 
Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a 
man who owed more to the Divine Giver of 
all good things than Mr. O. A fine fortune, 
a pleasing exterior, self-evident amiable dis- 
positions, and an ingenuous upright mind, and 
that informed, too, much beyond the usual run 
of young fellows of his rank and fortune : and 
to all this, such a woman ! — but of her I shall 
say nothing at all, in despair of saying any 
thing adequate. In my song, 1 have endeav- 
oured to do justice to what would be his feel- 
ings, on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, 
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good 
deal pleased with my performance, I in my 
first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. 

O ; but on second thoughts, perhaps 

what I offer as the honest incense of genuine 
respect, might, from the well-known charac- 
ter of poverty and poetry, be construed into 
some modification or other of that servility 
which my soul abhors.* 



CXLIX. 
TO MISS . 

MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute ne- 

* The song enclosed was that, given in Poems, p. 116. 
beginning, 

wat ye voha's in yon town ? E. 



cessity could have made me trouble you with 
this letter. Except my ardent and jus' 
esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, every 
sentiment arising in my breast, as I put pen 
to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I 
have passed with the friend of my soul and hie 
amiable connexions! the wrench at my heart 
to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, 
never more to meet in the wanderings 
of a weary world ! and the cutting reflec- 
tion of all that I had most unfortunately, 
though most undeservedly, lost the confi- 
dence of that soul of worth, ere it took its 
flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordi- 
nary anguish.— However, you also may be 
offended with some imputed improprieties of 
mine ; sensibility you know 1 possess, and 
sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have 
been raised against me, is not the business of 
this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not 
how to wage. The powers of positive vice 
I can in some degree calculate, and against 
direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; but 
who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, 
or ward off the unthinking mischief of pre- 
cipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you, Madam ; 

and of your sister Mrs. , through your 

means. You know that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all my 
trifles in verse which I had ever written. There 
are many of them local, some of them puerile 
and silly, and all of them, unfit for the public 
eye. As 1 have some little fame at stake, a 
fame that I trust may live when the hate of 
those " who watch for my halting," and the 
contumelious sneer of those whom accident 
has made my superiors, will, with themselves, 
be gone to the regions of oblivion ; 1 am 
uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts. 

— Will Mrs. have the goodness to destroy 

them, or return them to me ? As a pledge of 
friendship they were bestowed ; and that 
circumstance indeed was all their merit. 
Most unhappily for me, that merit they no 

longer possess; and I hope that Mrs. 's 

gooduess, which I well know, and ever will 
revere, will not refuse this favour to a man 
whom she once held in some degree of estima- 
tion. 



With the sincerest esteem, I have the hon- 
our to be, Madam, &c. 



176 



LETTERS* 



No. CL. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
tossed on a sea of troubles, without one friendly 
star to guide her course, and dreading that 
the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst 



I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and 1 ever talked on the subject of 
religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, 
as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the 
undiscerning many ; or at most as an uncertain 
ohscurity, which mankind can never know 
any thing of, and with which they are fools 
if they give themselves much to do. Nor 
would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion 
any more than I would for his want of a 
musical ear. I would regret that he was shut 



thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the , out from what, to me and to others, were such 



tortures of suspense, the stability and hardi- 
hood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou 
canst not do the least of these, why wouldst 
thou disturb me in my miseries with thy in- 
quiries after me ? 



For these two months, I have not been able 
to lift a pen. My constitution and frame 
were ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable 
taint of hypochondria, which poisons my ex- 
istence. Of late a number of domestic vexa- 
tions, and some pecuniary share in the ruin 
of these * * * * * times ; losses which, though 
trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have 
so irritated me, that my feelings at times 
could only be envied by a reprobate spirit 
listening to the sentence that dooms it to per- 
dition. 

Are you deep in the language of consola- 
tion? I have exhausted in reflection every 
topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have 
been charmed with my sentiments and reason- 
ings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas 
lscariot preaching the Gospel : he might melt 
and mould the hearts of those around him, 
but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The one is composed of the different modifica- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something 
in man, known by the names of courage, forti- 
tude, magnanimity. The other is made up of 
those feelings and sentiments, which, however 
the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast 
disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, origi- 
nal and component parts of the human soul : 
those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed 
the expression, which connect us with, and 
link us to, those awful obscure realities— an 
all-powerful, and equally beneficent God ; 
and a world to come, beyond death and the 
grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, 
while a ray of hope beams on the field :— the 
last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds 
which time can never cure. 



superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this 
point of view, and for this reason, that 1 will 
deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine 
with religion. If my son should happen to be 
a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall 
thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me 
flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, 
who is just now running about my desk, will 
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; 
and an imagination, delighted with the paint- 
er, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure 
him wandering out in a sweet evening, to 
inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing 
luxuriance of the spring ! himself the while in 
the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad 
on all nature, and through nature up to na- 
ture's God. His soul, by swift delighting 
degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, 
until he can be silent no longer, and bursts 
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." • 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of 
that charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real 
delights : and I ask what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to 
say equal, to them? And they have this 
precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue 
stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on 
them to bring herself into the presence of a 
witnessing, judging, and approving God. 



No. CLI. 
TO MRS. R**** 

Supposes himself to be writing from the Dead to 
the Living. 

MADAM, 

I dare say this is the first epistle you ever 
received from this nether world. I write you 



LETTERS. 



17 



from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as 
I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was 
fairly tried and sentenced to endure the pur- 
gatorial tortures of this infernal confine for 
the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, 
and twenty-nine days, and all on account of 
the impropriety of my conduct yester-night 
under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed, 



No. CLII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



15th December, 1795. 



MY DEAR FRIEND. 



As I am in a complete Decemberish hu- 
mour gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity 
of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not 
drawl out a heavy letter with a number of 
heavier apologies for my late silence. Only 



of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined one I shall mention, because I know you will 



on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn; while an 
infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and 
cruel, his name I think is Recollection, with a , 
whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to ap- ; 
proach me, and keeps anguish eternally 
awake. Still, Madam, if 1 could in any 
measure be reinstated in the good opinion of 
the fair circle whom my conduct last night so ! 
much injured, 1 think it would be an allevia- j 
tion to my torments. For this reason I trou- 
ble you with this letter. To the men of the 
company I will make no apology. — Your hus- I 
band, who insisted on my drinking more than \ 
I chose, has no right to blame me ; and the j 
other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. 
Your good opinion I valued as one of the 
greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, 
and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 

was a Miss I , too, a woman of fine sense, 

gentle and unassuming manners — do make, on 
my part, a miserable d — d wretch's best apolo- 
gy to her. A Mrs. G— — , a charming woman, 
did me the honour to be prejudiced in my fa- 
vour ; this makes me hope that I have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness — To all 
the other ladies please present my humblest 
contrition for my conduct, and ray petition 
for their gracious pardon. O, all ye powers 
of decency and decorum ! whisper to them, 
that my errors, though great, were involun- 
tary — that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not in my nature to be 
brutal to any one — that to be rude to a wo- 
man, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me— but — 



Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 



Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of Madam, your humble slave. 



sympathize in it : these four months, a sweet 
little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, 
that every day, a week or less, threatened to 
terminate her existence. There had much 
need be many pleasures annexed to the states 
of husband and father, for God knows, they 
have many peculiar'cares. 1 cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours, these ties 
frequently give me. I see a train of helpless 
little folks ; me and my exertions all their 
stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the 
life of man hang ! If 1 am nipt off at the com- 
mand of Fate, even in all the vigour of man- 
hood as I am — such things happen every day 
— gracious God ! what would become of my 
little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people 
of fortune ! A father on his death-bed, taking 
an everlasting leave of his children, has in- 
deed wo enough ; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters inde- 
pendency and friends; while I— but I shall 
run distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad— 

" O that I had ne'er been married 

I would never had nae care; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie 1 evermair. 

Crowdie! ancef crowdie twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.' 



December, 2ith. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here this- 
season ; only, as all other business has, it » \- 
periences a stagnation of trade from the epi- 
demical complaint of the country, want of cash. 
I mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- 
casional Address which 1 wrote for the benefit 
night of one of the actresses, and which is as 
follows.* 

* The Address is given in p.lS4, of the Poems. 
A a 



178 



LETTERS. 

25th, Christmas Morning, j Do let me hear from you the soonest pos- 



This my much-loved friend is a morning of 
wishes; accept mine — so heaven hear me ss 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not ! in 
the charming words of my favourite author, 
The Man of Feeling, " May the Great Spirit 
bear up the weight of thy gray hairs 
blunt the arrow that brings them rest!" 



sible. 



Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowper? Is not the Task a glorious 
poem ? The religion of the Task, bating a few 



As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or song, 
and In this last article I have abounded of late. I 
have often mentioned to you a superb publica- 
tion of Scotish songs which is making its ap- 
pearance in your great metropolis, and where 
I have the honour to preside over the Scotish 
verse as no less a personage than Peter Pin- 



I wrote the fol- 
lowing for a favourite air. See the Song en- 
titled, Lord Gregory, Poems, p. 87. 



scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion dar does over the English. 

of God and Nature ; the religion that exalts, 

that ennobles man. Were not you to send 

me your Zeluco, in return for mine ? Tell me 

how you like my marks and notes through the 

book. 1 would not give a farthing for a book, 

unless I were at liberty to blot it with my 

criticisms. 



I have lately collected, for a friend's peru- 
sal, all my letters, 1 mean those which 1 first 
sketched, in a rough draught and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old 
musty paper, which, from time to time, I had 
parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet at the same time I 
did not care to destroy ; I discovered many of 
these rude sketches, and have written, and 
am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my 
friend's library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a 
single scroll to you, except one, about the 
commencement of our acquaintance. If the.e 
were any possible conveyance, I would send 
you a perusal of my book. 



No. CLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 



Dumfries, 20th December, 17C5. 

I have been prodigiously disappointed in 
this London journey of yours. In the first 
place, when your last to me reached Dum- 
fries, I was in the country, and did not return 
until too late to answer your letter; in the 
next place, I thought you would certainly 
take this route ; and now I know not what is 
become of you, or whether this may reach you 
it all. — God grant that it may find you and 



December 29th. 
Since I began this letter, I have beeu ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here : and I assure you, what with the load ol 
business, and what with that business being 
new to me, 1 could scarcely have commanded 
ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you 
been in town, much less to have written you 
an epistle. This appointment is only tempo- 
rary, and during the illness of the present in- 
cumbent; but I look forward to an early 
period when I shall be appointed in full form ; 
a consummation devoutly to be wished ! My 
political sins seem to be forgiven me. 



This is the season (New-y ear's day is now 
my date) of wishing ; and mine are most fer- 
vently offered up for you ! May life to you be 
a positive blessing while it lasts, for your 
own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly 
prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and 
for the sake of the rest of your friends ! What 
a transient business is life ! Very lately I was 
a boy ; but t'other day I was a young man ; 
end I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and 
stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er 
my frame. With all my follies of youth, and, 
1 fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congra- 
tulate myself on having had, in early days, 
religion strongly impressed on my mind. I 
have nothing to say to any one as to which 
sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes ; 
but I look on the man, who is firmly persuad- 
ed of infinite Wisdom and Goodness super- 
intending and directing every circumstance 
that can happen in his lot — 1 felicitate such a 
man as having a solid foundation for his men- 
tal enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay in 
the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress: 
and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he 



yours in prospering health and good spirits ! looks beyond the grave. 



LETTERS. 



You will have seen 
genious friend the Doctor, long ere this. I 
hope he is well, and beg to be remem- 
bered to him. I have just been reading over 
again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth 
time, his View of Society and Manners ; and 
still I read it with delight. His humour is 
perfectly original — it is neither the humour 
of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any 
body but Dr. Moore. By the by, you have 
deprived me of Zeluco ; remember that, when 
you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of my lazi- 
ness. 



He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in his last publication.* 



179 

January 12th. I packets in my debt— what sin of ignorance I 
our worthy and in- have committed against so highly valued a 
friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madam ! ill can 1 afford, at this time, to be 
deprived of any of the small remnant of my 
pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the 
cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me o/ 
my only daughter and darling child, and that 
at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it 
out of my power to pay the last duties to her. 
I had scarcely begun to recover from that 
shock, when I became myself the victim of a 
most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die 
spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a 
sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and 
I am beginning to crawl across my room, and 
once indeed, have been before my own door 
in the street. 



No. CLIV. 



When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purines the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 

And shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful dav 



TO MRS. R*****. 

20th January, 17G6. 
I cannot express my gratitude to you for 
allowing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. 
In fact I never met with a book that be- 
witched me so much ; and I, as a member of 
the library, must warmly feel the obligation 
you have laid us under. Indeed to me, the 
obligation is stronger than to any other in- 
dividual of our society ; as Anacharsis is an 
indespensable desideratum to a son of the 
Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morn- 
ing's card, is I think, flown from me for ever. 
1 have not been able to leave my bed to-day 
till about an hour ago. These wickedly un- 
lucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a 
friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The Muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following detached stanzas I intend to 
interweave in some disastrous tale of a shep- 
herd. 



No. CLV. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

31st January, 1798. 
These many months you have been two 

• Edward. 



No. CLVL 

TO MRS. R«****, 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day As- 
sent', ly on that day to show his loyalty. 

4th June, 1796. 
I am in such miserable health as to be 
utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in 
any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, 
I meet every face with a greeting, like that 
of Balak to Balaam — " Come, curse me 
Jacob ; and come, defy me Israel V So say 
I — Come, curse me that east wind : and come, 
defy me the north ! Would you have me in 
such circumstances, copy you out a love 
song? 



I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but I 
will not be at the ball. — Why should I ! " Man 
delights not me, nor woman either 1" Can yon 
supply me with the song, Let us all be unhappy 
together— do if you can, and oblige le paurre 
miserable. R. B. 



No. CLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 7th July, 1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I received yours here this moment, and 



180 



LETTERS. 



am indeed highly flattered with the approba- 
tion of the literary circle you mention ; a liter- 
ary circle inferior to none in the two king- 
doms. Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of 
the bard will soon be heard among you no 
more I For these eight or ten months I have 
been ailing, sometimes bedfast, and sometimes 
not ; but these last three months, I have been 
tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, 
Which has reduced me to nearly the last 
stage. You actually would not know me if 
you saw me. — Pale, emaciated, and so feeble 
as occasionally to need help from my chair ! 
my spirits fled ! fled !— but 1 can no more on 
the subject— only the medical folks tell me 
that my last and only chance is bathing, and 
country quarters, and riding. — The deuce of 
the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead of 
£50. — What way, in the name of thrift, shall 
I maintain myself, and keep a horse in coun- 
try quarters— with a wife and five children at 
home, on £35 ? I mention this, because I had 
intended to beg your utmost interest, and that 
of all the friends you can muster, to move our 
Commissioners of Excise to grant me the full 
salary — I dare say you know tbem all person- 
ally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay 
my account with an exit truly en poete, if I 
die not of disease, I must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I 
have no copy here ; but 1 shall be at home 
soon, when I will send it to you. — A-propos to 
being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a 
week or two to add one more to my paternal 
charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend 
shall be introduced to the world by the re- 
spectable designation of Alexander Cunning- 
ham Burns. My last was James Glencairn, so 
you can have no objection to the company of 
nobility. Farewell ! 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow, Thursday. 

MY DEAREST LOVE, 

I delayed writing until I could tell you 



what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. 
It would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think, has strengthened me »" 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No 
flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and 
milk are the only thing I can taste. I am 
very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, 
that you are all well. My very best and 
kindest compliments to her, and to all the 
children. I will see you on Sunday. Your 
affectionate husband. 

R. B. 



No. CLIX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Brow, 12th July, 1796. 



MADAM, 



I have written you so often without re- 
ceiving any answer, that I would not trouble 
you again, but for the circumstances in which 
I am. An illness which has long hung about 
me, in all probability will speedily send me 
beyond that bourn whence no traveller returns. 
Your friendship, with which for many years 
you honoured me was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and especially 
your correspondence, were at once highly 
entertaining and instructive. With what 
pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The 
remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !* 

R. B. 

* The above is supposed to be the last production of 
Robert Burns, who died on the 21st of the month, nine 
days afterwards. He had, however, the pleasure of re- 
ceiving a satisfactory explanation of his friend's silence, 
and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to 
his widow and children : an assurance that has been 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her letters to him 
were destroyed by our Bard about the time that this last 
was written. ,He did not foresee that his own letters to 
her were to appear in print, nor conceive the disappoint 
ment that will be felt, thatafew of this excellent lady's 
have not served to enrich and adorn the collection. E. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



PREFACE. 



The remaining part of this "Volume, consists principally of the Correspondence between Mr. 
Burns and Mr. Thomson, on the subject of the beautiful Work projected and executed by the 
latter, the nature of which is explained in the first number of the following series.* The un- 
dertaking of Mr. Thomson, is one in which the Public may be congratulated in various points 
of view; not merely as having collected the finest of the Scotish songs and airs of past times, 
but as having given occasion to a number of original songs of our Bard, which equal or sur- 
pass the former efforts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may 
be safely compared with the lyric poetry of any age or country. The letters of Mr. Burns to 
Mr. Thomson include tire songs he presented to him, some of which appear in different stages 
of their progress ; and these letters will be found to exhibit occasionally his notions of song- 
writing, and his opinions on various subjects of taste and criticism. These opinions, it will be 
observed, were called forth by the observations of his correspondent, Mr. Thomson ; and 
without the letters of this gentleman, those of Burns would have been often unintelligible" 
He has therefore yielded to the earnest request of the Trustees of the family of the poet, to 
suffer them to appear in their natural order ; and, independently of the illustration they give to 
the letters of our Bard, it is not to be doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure them a re- 
ception from the public, far beyond what Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him to sup- 
pose. The whole of this correspondence was arranged for the press by Mr. Thomson, and 
has been printed with little addition or variation. 

To avoid increasing the bulk of the work unnecessarily, we have in general referred the 
reader for the Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and have given the verses en- 
tire, only when they differ in some respects from the adopted set. 



No. I. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September, 1792. 



For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engaged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion 
to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, 
both public and private. To render this work 
perfect, we are desirous to have the poetry 
improved, wherever it seems unworthy of the 
music ; and that it is so in many instances, is 



allowed by every one conversant with our 
musical collections. The editors of these seem 
in general to have depended on the music 
proving an excuse for the verses ; and hence, 
some charming melodies are united to mere 
nonsense and doggerel, while others are ac- 
commodated with rhymes so loose and indeli- 
cate, as cannot be sung in decent company. 
To remove this reproach would be an easy 
task to the author of The Cotter's Saturday 
Night; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I 
would fain hope he may be induced to take 
up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to 
present the public with a collection infinitely 
more interesting than any that has yet appear- 
ed, and acceptable to all persons of taste, 
whether they wish for correct melodies, deli- 
cate accompaniments, or characteristic verses. 
— We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reason- 



, * This -work is entitled, " A Select Collection of original Scotish Airs for tlic Voice: to which are added, Introduc- 
tory and Concluding Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and Violin by ricyel and Kozeluch ; with 
select and characteristic Verses, by the most admired Scotish Poets," Sqp. 



182 



LETTERS. 



able price you shall please to demand for it. 
Profit is quite a secondary consideration with 
us, and we are resolved to spare neither paint, 
nor expense on the publication. Tell me 
frankly, then, whether you will devote your 
leisure to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, 
suited to the particular melodies which I am 
prepared to send you. A few songs, excep- 
tionable only in some of their verses, I will 
likewise submit to your consideration ; leav- 
ing it to you, either to mend these, or make 
new songs in their stead. It is superfluous to 
assure you that I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old songs ; those only will 
be removed, which appear quite silly, or ab- 
solutely indecent. Even these shall all be 
examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of 
opinion that any of them are deserving of 
the music, in such cases no divorce shall take 
place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to 
be forgiven for the liberty I have taken in ad- 
dressing you, I am, with great esteem, Sir, 
your most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



No. II. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Dumfries, 16th September, 17S2. 

SIR, 

I have just this moment got your letter. 
As the request you make to me will positively 
add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I 
shall enter into your undertaking with all the 
small portion of abilities I have, strained to 
their utmost exertion by the impulse of en- 
thusiasm. Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak 
the hindmost," is by no means the cri de guerre 
of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to 
none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the 
poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since 
you request it, have cheerfully promised my 
mite of assistance — will you let me have a list 
of your airs, with the first line of the printed 
verses you intend for them, that I may have 
an opportunity of suggesting any alteration 
that may occur to me. You know 'tis in the 
vvay of my trade ; still leaving you, gentle- 
men, the undoubted right of publishers, to 
approve, or reject, at your pleasure, for your 
own publication. A-propos! if you are for 
English verses, there is, on my part, an end of 
the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the 
ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only 
hope to please myself in being allowed at least 



a sprinkling of our native tongue. English 
verses particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
that have jnerit, are certainly very eligible. 
Tweedside — Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful 
fate — Ah, Chloris could 1 now but sit, &c. you 
caunot mend ; but such insipid stuff as, To 
Fanny fair could I impart, &c. usually set to 
The Mill Mill O, is a disgrace to the collection 
in which it has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collection that will have the 
very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
if I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
ments — I say, amendments : for I will not 
alter except where I myself at least think that 
I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark 
in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, 
fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution 
of soul I A proof of each of the songs that I 
: compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. 
In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude 
! speed the wark I" 

I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible. 



No. III. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinburgh, lZth October, 1792. 



DEAR SIR, 



I received, with much satisfaction, your 
pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our under- 
taking. We have now no doubt of being able 
to produce a collection highly deserving of 
public attention in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
comes every year more and more the language 
of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scotish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ 
from you. I should consider it unpardonable 



LETTERS. 



183 



to sacrifice one" good song in the Scotish 
dialect, to make room for English verses ; but 
if we can select a few excellent ones suited to 
the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it 
not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism 
to reject such, merely because the authors 
were born south of the Tweed? Our sweet 
air, My Nannie O, which in the collections is 
joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay 
ever wrote, beginning, While some for pleasure 
pawn their health, answers so finely to Dr. 
Percy's beautiful song, O, Nancy wilt thou go 
with me, that one would think he wrote it on 
purpose for the air. However, it is not at all 
our wish to confine you to English verses ; 
you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of 
your native tongue, as you elegantly express 
it : and moreover, we will patiently wait your 
own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse may 
be, she may always be decent. Let her not 
write what beauty would blush to speak, nor 
wound that charming delicacy which forms 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. I 
do not conceive the song to be the most pro- 
per vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits ; 
simplicity, I believe, should be its prominent 
feature ; but, in some of our songs, the writers 
have confounded simplicity with coarseness 
and vulgarity; although between the one and 
the other, as Dr. Beattie well observes, there 
is as great a difference as between a plain suit 
of clothes and a bundle of rags. The humor- 
ous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best 
suited to our artless melodies ; and more in- 
teresting, indeed, in all songs, than the most 
pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and flowery 
fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to 
substitute others of your writing. I shall 
soon transmit the rest, and, at the same time, 
a prospectus of the whole collection : and you 
may believe we will receive any hints that 
you. are so kind as to give for improving the 
work, with the greatest pleasure and thank- 
fulness. 

I remain, dear Sir, &c. 



No. IV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fas- 
tidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I 
own that your criticisms are just ; the songs 
you specify in your li&t have all, but one, the 



faults you remark in them ; but who shall 
mend the matter ? Who shall rise up and say 
—Go to, I will make a better 1 For instance, 
on reading over the Lea-rig, I immediately 
set about trying my hand on it, and, after 
all, 1 could make nothing more of it than 
the following, which, Heaven knows is poor 
enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin time is near my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks* 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In roirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,t 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark 
to you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
Scotish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style 
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of 
our native tongue and manners is particu- 
larly, nay peculiarly apposite. For this 
reason, and, upon my honour, for this reason 
alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you be- 
fore, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to ap- 
prove, or reject, as you please) that my ballad 

* For " scented birks,"- in some copies, " biiken 
buds." E. 

f In the copy transmitted to Mr. Thomson, instead of 
wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the manuscripts, 
probably written afterwards, wet was changed into wild 
evidently a great improvement. The lovers might meet 
on the lea-rig," although the night were ne'er so wild," 
that is, although the summer-wind blew, the sky lowered, 
and the thunder murmured; such circumstances might 
render their meeting still more interesting. But if the 
night were actually wet, why should they meet on the lea- 
rig? On a wet night the imagination cannot contemplate 
their situation there with any complacency.— Tibullus, 
and, after him, Hammond, has conceived a happier situa- 
tion for lovers on a wet night. Probably Burns had in 
his mind the verse of an old Scotish Song, in which wet 
and weart/ are naturally enough conjoined. 

** When my ploughman comes hame at ev'n 

He's often wet and weary; 

Cast off the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my deary.* 



!84 LETTERS 

of Nannie O, might, perhaps, do for one set of 
verses to the tune. Now don't let it enter in- 
to your head, that you are under any neces- 
sity of taking my verses. I have long ago 
made up my mind as to my own reputation in 
the business of authorship ; and have nothing 
to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption 
or rejection of my verses. Though you should 
reject one half of what I give you, I shall be 
pleased with your adopting the other half, 
and shall continue to serve you with the same 
assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 



«' Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits 
the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the 
most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

1 will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, 
free of postage, an expense that it is ill able 
to pay : so, with my best compliments to hon- 
est Allan, Good be wi' ye, &c. 

Friday night. 



Saturday morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare 
this morning before my conveyance goes 
away, I will give you Nannie O, at length. 
See Poems, p. 56. 

Your remarks on Ewe-bughts, Marion, are 
just: still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scotish Songs ; and what with 
mauy beauties in its composition, and more 
prejudices in its favour, you will not find it 
easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was think- 
ing of going to the West Indies, I took the 
following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite 
trifling, and has nothing of the merits of Ewe- 
bughts; but it will fili up this page. You 
must know, that all my earlier love-songs 
were the breathings of ardent passion : and 
though it might have been easy in after-times 
to have given them a polish, yet that polish, 
to me, whose they were, and who perhaps 
alone cared for them, would have defaced the 
legend of my heart, which was so faithfully 
inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity 
was, as they say of wines, their race. 



Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore? 

See Poems p. 85. 

Galla Water, and Auld Rob Morris, I th ink, 
will most probably be the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, sp eak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot oiopiniatrete', but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more diffi- 
culty in the undertaking than you are aware 
of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of 
our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables 
to the emphasis, or what I would call the 
feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, 
and lay him under almost insuperable difficul- 
ties. For instance, in the air, My wife's a 
wanton wee , thing, if a few lines smooth and 
pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can 
expect. The following were made extempore 
to it ; and though, on farther study, I might 
give you something more profound, yet it 
might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air 
so well as this random clink. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 

See Poems, p. 85. 

1 have just been looking over the Collier's 
bonnie Dochter ; and if the following rhap- 
sody, which I composed the other day, on a 

charming Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she 

passed through this place to England, will 
suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, 
fall on and welcome. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

See Poems, p. 85. 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimcr, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 



MKt 



LETTERS. 



185 



take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to 
honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, 
&c. 



No. VI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing' the song on Highland Mary. 
See Poems, p. 85. 



14/7i November, 1792. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



1 agree with you that the song, Katharine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie 
recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every 
attempt at introducing sentiment into the 
piece. The foregoing song pleases myself; 
I think it is in my happiest manner ; you will 
see at first glance that it suits the air. The 
subject of the song is one of the most interest- 
ing passages of my youthful days ; and I own 
that I should be much flattered to see the 
verses set to an air, which would ensure 
celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still 
glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws a 
borrowed lustre over the merits of the com- 
position. 

I have partly taken your idea of A uld Rob 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. 1 take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



No. VII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, November, 1792. 

DEAR SIR, 

I was just going to writ* <o you, that on 
meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violently 
in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me, in the 
dress you wish her to appear before the 



public. She does you great credit, and will 
soon be admitted into the best company. 

1 regret that your song for the Lea-rig, is 
so short; the air is easy, soon sung, and very 
pleasing ; so that, if the singer stops at the 
end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it 
is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and. 
appropriate to our melodies, yet 1 shall be 
able to present a considerable number of the 
very Flowers of English Song, well adapted 
to those melodies, which in England at least 
will be the means of recommending them to 
still greater attention than they have procured 
there. But you will observe, my plan is, that 
every air shall, in the first place, have verses 
wholly by Scotish poets : and that those of 
English writers shall follow as additional 
songs, for the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; I 
admire it and never meant to supplant it. All 
I requested was, that you would try your 
hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which 
are apparently no part of the original song : 
but this I do not urge, because the song is of 
sufficient length though those inferior stanzas 
be omitted, as they will be by the singer of 
taste. You must cot think I expect all the 
songs to be of superlative merit : that were an 
unreasonable expectation. I am sensible that 
no poet can sit down doggedly to pen verses, 
and succeed well at all times. 

1 am highly pleased with your humorous 
and amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Leslie ; it is a 
thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie. 
'■* The diel he could na scaith thee," &c. is an 
eccentric and happy thought. Do you not 
think, however, that the names of such old 
heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un- 
less in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? In- 
stead of the line " And never made another," 
I would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made 
sic anither ;" and I would fain have you 
substitute some other line for " Return to 
Caledonia," in the last verse, because I think 
this alteration of the orthography, and of the 
sound of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and 
renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, My ic>fe J s a winsome icce 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good, 
but I do not admire the other eight, because 
four of them are a bare repetition of the first 
verse. I have been trying to spin a stanza, 
but could make nothing better than tj^e fol- 
lowing : do you mend it, or, as Ydntk did 
Bb 



186 



LETTERS. 



with the love-letter, whip it up in your own 
way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing ; 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mair o't; 
Wi' her 111 blithely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive my dear Sir, I avail myself of 
the liberty which you condescend to allow 
me, by speaking freely what I think. Be 
assured, it is not my disposition (o pick oat 
the faults of any poem or picture I see: my 
first and chief object is to discover and be de- 
lighted with the beauties of the piece. If I 
sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, 
what perhaps you have written in haste, I 
may happen to observe careless lines, the re- 
perusal of which might lead you to improve 
them. The wren will often see what has been 
overlooked by the eagle. I remain yours 
faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last 
for ever. Such verses united to such an air, 
with the delicate harmony of Pleyel super- 
added, might form a treat worthy of being 
presented to Apollo himself. I have heard 
the sad story of your Mary : you always seem 
inspired when you write of her. 



No. VIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON/ 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 

Your alterations of my Nannie O are per- 
fectly right. So are those of My wife's a wan- 
ton ivee thing. Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear Sir, with the freedom which charac- 
terizes our correspondence, I must not, can- 
not, alter Bonnie Leslie. You are right, the 
word " Alexander" makes the [line a little 
uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. 
Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it 
.^jay be said, in the sublime language of Scrip- 



ture, that 
conquer." 



he went forth conquering and to 



" For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither." (Such a person as she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial ; make it either way.* " Caledo- 
nie," I agree with you, is not so good a word 
as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay : but 
I cannot help it. In short that species of 
stanza is the most difficult that 1 have ever 
tried. 

The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the poet 
gives the two first stanzas, as before, p, 183, 
with the following in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo : 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



I am interrupted. 



Vours, &c. 



No. IX. 



MR. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Inclosing Auld Rob Morris, and Duncan 
Gray. See Poems, p. 86. 

4th December, 1TG2. 
The foregoing (Auld Rob Morris and Dun- 
can Gray,) I submit, my dear Sir, to your bet- 
ter judgment. Acquit them, or condemn 
them as seemetb good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an 
air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With Poortith Cauld and Galla Water 

See Poems, pp. 80, 87. \ 

January, 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear 

* Mr. Thomson has decided on Ne'er made sic art' 
it her. 1\ 



LETTERS. 1 87 

Sir. How comes on your publication? will | The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I be- 
these two foregoing be of any service to you? 1 1 lieve, knew more of this than auy body, for 
should like to know what songs you print to j he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary a 
each tune besides the verses to which it is set. j taste for poetry, besides being a man of the 



In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know it 
is my trade, and a man in the way of his 
trade, may suggest useful hints, that escape 
men of much superior parts and. endowments 
in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the compliments 
of the season. 

Yours, &c. 



No. XL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January, 20, 1793. 
You make me happy my dear Sir, and 
thousands will be happy to see the charming 
songs you have sent me. Many merry returns 
of the season to you, and may you long conti- 
nue, among the sons and daughters of Cale- 
donia, to delight them and to honour your- 
self. 

The four last songs with which you favoured 
me, viz. Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla 
Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. Dun- 
can is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour 
will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
happy Shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast : they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally 
in view, was limited ; but I now resolve to 
include every Scotch air and song worth 
singing, leaving none behind but mere glean- 
ings, to which the publishers of omnegatherum 
are welcome. I would rather be the editor of 
a collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the 
one characteristic of the plaintive, and the 
other of the lively songs ; and I have Dr. 
Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject 
of our national music, if his health will per- 
mit him to write it. As a number of our songs 
have doubtless been called forth by particular 
events, or by the charms of peerless damsels, 
there must be many curious anecdotes re- 
lating to them. 



world, and possessing an enthusiasm for 
music beyond most of his contemporaries. He 
was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for 
I may say it has been solely managed by me, 
and we had several long conversations about 
it when it was in embryo. If I could simply 
mention the name of the heroine of each song, 
and the incident which occasioned the verses, 
it would be gratifying. Pray, will you send 
me any information of this sort, as well with 
regard to your own songs, as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- 
companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the 
comic and humorous class, 1 think accom- 
paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chief- 
ly fitted for the conviviality of the festive 
board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper de- 
livery of the words, renders them perfect. 
Nevertheless, to these I propose adding bass 
accompaniments, because then they are fitted 
either for singing, or for instrumental per- 
formance, when theie happens to be no sing- 
er. I mean to employ our light trusty friend 
Mr. Clarke, to set the bass to these, which he 
assures me he will do con amore, and with 
much greater attention than he ever bestowed 
on any thing of the kind. But for this last 
class of airs 1 will not attempt to find more 
than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
started I know not how many difficulties, 
about writing for the airs I sent to him, be- 
cause of the peculiarity of their measure, and 
the trammels they impose on his flying Pe- 
gasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only 
one I have yet got from him, being for the 
fine air " Lord Gregory." The Scots verses 
printed with that air, are taken from the mid- 
dle of an old ballad, called The Lass of Lech~ 
royan, which I do not admire. I have set 
down the air therefore as a creditor of yoursr 
Many of the Jacobite songs are replete will) 
wit and humour, might not the best of theso 
be included in our volume of comic songs 1 



POSTSCRIPT. 
FROM THE HON. A. ERSK1NE: 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to 
give me a perusal of your songs. Highland 
Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, and Du' , tX 



188 



LETTERS. 



sprightliness of our native music, than any 
English verses whatever. 

! The very name of Peter Pindar is an acqui- 
1 sition to your work. His Gregory is beauti- 
ful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots, on the same subject, which are at 
ised me, about a year ago, a collection of! your service. Not that I intend to enter the 
your unpublished productions, religious and ! lists with Peter ; that would be presumption 
amorous: I know from experience how indeed. My song, though much inferior in 
ksome it is to copy. If you will get any I poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad 
trusty person in Dumfries to write them over > simplicity in it.* 
fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money I 
he asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall | My most respectful compliments to the 



can Gray possesses native genuine humour ; 
" spak o' lowpin o er a linn," is a line of itself 
that should make you immortal. I some- 
times hear of you from our mutual friend C. 
who is a most excellent fellow, and posses- 
ses, above all men I know, the charm of a 
most obliging disposition. You kindly prom- 



not betray your confidence. — I am your hearty 
admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

26th January, 1793. 

I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your 
plans ; Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a 
treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an 
appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my 
stock of anecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. 
All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by 
me, taken down in the course of my acquain- 
tance with him from his own mouth. I am 
such an enthusiast, that, in the course of my 
several peregrinations through Scotland, I 
made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from 
which every song took its rise ; Lochaber, and 
the Braes of Ballenden, excepted. So far as 
the locality, either from the title of the air, or 
the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, 
I have paid my devotions at the particular 
shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of 'Jacobite songs; but 
would it give no offence ? In the mean time, 
llo not you think that some of them, particu- 
larly The sow's tail to Geordie, as an air, with 
other words, might be well worth a place in 
your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words 
to which the notes ought to be set. There is 
a naivete, a pastoral simplicity in a slight in- 
termixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, 
and, I will add to every genuine Caledonian 
taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic 



honourable gentleman who favoured me with 
a postscript in your last. He shall hear from 
me and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
20th March, 1793 

MY DEAR SIR, 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works.f I leave it in your hands. I do not 
think it very remarkable, either for its merits 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel 
it so in my stinted powers) to be always 
original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you 
by and by. I have always looked upon my- 
self as the prince of indolent correspondents, 

* For Burns's words, see Poems, p. 87.— -The song of 
Dr. Walcott, on the same subject, is as follows : 

Ah ! ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 

A midnight wanderer sighs : 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with wo at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

That once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

But shouldst thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part : 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that 
his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and 
i mmediately wrote the other on the same subject, which 
is derived from an old Scotish ballad of uncertain origin. E. 

+ Mary Morison, Poems, p. 87. ; 



189 



LETTERS. 

and valued myself accordingly; and I will ; yourself, "the prince of indolent correspond, 
not, cannot bear rivaJship from you, nor any \ ents f but if the adjective were taken away, 



body else. 



No. XIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With the first copjj of Wandering Willie. 
See Poems p. 88. 

March, 1793. 
1 leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old Thro 7 the lang 
Muir, be the best. 



I think the title would then fit you exactly. 
It gives me pleasure to find you can furnish 
anecdotes with respect to most of the songs : 
these will be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs which 
I believe will be found nearly complete. I 
have put down the first lines of all the English 
songs which I propose giving in addition to 
the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you, 
better adapted to the character of the airs, 
pray mention them, when you favour me with 
your strictures upon every thing else relating 
to the work. 



No. XV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME OH! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, 
Oh ! open the door to me, Oh !* 

See Poems p. 88. 

I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on , the banks o' the 

Ayr; 

See Poems p. 89. 



Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
j songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
; ments added to them. I wish you were here, 
| that I might serve up some of them to you 
| with your own verses, by way of dessert after 
j dinner. There is so much delightful fancy 
j in the symphonies, and such a delicate sim- 
I plicity in the accompaniments — they are in- 
! deed beyond all praise. 



No. XVII, 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 
1 will not recognize, the title you give 

* This second line was originally, 

If love it may na be, Oh { 



I am very much pleased with the several 
last productions of your muse : your Lord 
Gregory, in my estimation, is more intere? ting 
than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here 
awa Willie must undergo some alterations to 
suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been 
conning it over; he will suggest what is ne- 
cessary to make them a fit match.* 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
and has already written four songs for it, 
which, by his own desire, I send for your per- 
usal. 



* See the altered copy of Wandering Willie, p. 88 of 
the Poems. Several of the alterations seem to be of little 
importance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be 
presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the 
music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, 
suggested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as 
well perhaps as more sublime, than wide-roaring, which 
he has retained ; but as it is only applicable to a plarii/ 
state of the sea, or at most to the swell left on its surface 
after the storm is over, it gives a picture" of that element 
not so well adapted to the ideas of eternal separation, 
which the fair mourner is supposed to imprecate. From 
the original song of Here awa Willie, Burns has borrow- 
ed nothing but the second line and part of the first. The 
superior "excellence of this beautiful poem, will, it is hoped, 
justify the different editions of it which we have given 
E. 



190 



LETTERS. 



No. XVIII. 



Mr. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air—" The Mill Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast, was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning, 

See Poems, p. 89. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air. — " O bonnie lass will you lie in a barrack." 

O ken ye what Mego' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
See Poems, p. 89. 



No. XIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

7th April, 1793. 
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business 
of composing for your publication has added 
to my enjoyments. What with my early at- 
tachment to ballads, your books, &c. ballad- 
making is now as completely my hobby-horse, 
as ever fortification was uncle Toby's ; so I'll 
e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of 
my race (God grant that I may take the right 
side of the winning post !) and then cheerfully 
looking back on the honest folks with whom 
I have been happy, I shall say or sing, " Sae 
merry as we a' hae been !" and raising my 
last looks to the whole human race, the last 
words of the voice of Coila* shall be, " Good 
night and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my 
past words : now for a few present remarks, 
as they have occurred at random on looking 
over your list. 

The first lines of The last time I came o'er the 
moor, and several other lines in it, are beauti- 
ful ; but in my opinion — pardon me, revered 



# Burns here calls) himself the Voice of Coila in imi- 
tation of Ossian, who denominates (himself the Voice of 
Conn. Sae merry as we a' hae been : and Good night 
and joy be wi' you a; are the names of two Scotish 
tuues. E. 



shade of Ramsay ! the song is "unworthy of 
the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. 
For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, is a charm- 
ing song ! but Logan burn and Logan braes, are 
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try 
that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. 1 remem- 
ber the two last lines of a verse, in some of the 
old songs of Logan Water (fori know a good 
many different ones) which I think pretty. 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. " His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony."— 

This i? surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but 
if I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sen- 
timents out of it, 1 will submit it to your con- 
sideration. The Lass o' Patie 's Mill is one of 
Ramsay's best songs; but there is one loose 
sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend 
Mr. Erskine will take into his critical con- 
sideration. — In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical vo- 
lumes, are two claims, one, I think, from Aber- 
deenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the 
honour of this song. The following anecdote, 
which I had from the present Sir William 
Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it 
of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on 
such authorities, believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-cas- 
tle with the then Eari, father to Earl John ; 
and one forenoon, riding or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet 
romantic spot on Irvine water, still called 
" Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was 
" tedding hay, bare headed on the green." 
My Lord observed to Allan, that it would be 
a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
hint, and lingering behind, he composed the 
first sketch of it, which he produced at Din- 
ner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; 
but for consistency's sake alter the name 
" Adonis." Were there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between 
A donis and Mar y? I agree with you that my 
song, There's nought but care on every hand, 
is much superior to Poortith cauld. The ori- 
ginal song, The Mill Mill O, though excellent, 
is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible ; still 



the title, and think a Scotish song 



m 



I like 

would suit the notes best : and let your chosen 
song, which is very pretty, follow, as an Eng- 
lish set. The Banks ef the Dee, is, you know, 
literally Langolee, to slow time. The song is 
well enough, but has some faise imagery in 
it : for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
low I ush, but never from a tree j and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale 
seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee. or on 
the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively flat, if 
I could hit on another stanza, equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly avow r , 
that I think it a superior song.* John Anderson 
my jo — the song to this tune in Johnson's Mu- 
seum, is my composition, and 1 think it not my 
worst : if it suit you, take it, and welcome. 
Your collection of sentimental and pathetic 
songs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; but 
not so your comic ones. Where are Tulloch- 
gonim, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, and 
several others, which, in my humble judgment, 
are well worthy of preservation? There is also 
One sentimental song of mine in the Museum, 
which never was known cut of the immediate 
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from 
a country girl's singing. It is called Craigie- 
burn Wood ; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, 
is one of the sweetest Scotish songs. He is 
quite an enthusiast about it : and I would take 
his taste in Scotish music against the taste of 
most connoisseurs. 



You are quite right in inserting the last the 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
Shepherds, 1 have lost my love 1 is to me a heav- 
enly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scotish verses to it? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which I think * * * 
but in its original state is not quite a lady's 
song. 1 enclose an altered, not amended copy j turn you. J 
for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, j 
and let the Irish verses foilow.f 



No. XX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I rejoice to find, my dear Sir, that ballad 
making continues to be your hobby-horse* 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a yeai; 
and " witch the world with your horseman- 
ship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
of merit that I have not put down in the list 
sent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My 
Patie is a lover gay, though a little unequal, 
is a natural and very pleasing song, and I 
humbly think we ought not to displace or alter 
it, except the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes up. 
permost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather," 



you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander, &c. 

My song, Here awa, there au-a, as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 



Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone Vale, is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these ran- 
dom hints. 

* It will be found, in the course of this correspondence, 
that the Bard produced a second stanza of The Chevalier' 1 1 
Lament (to which he here alludes) worthy of the first. E. 

f Ml". Thomson, it appears, did not approve of Ibis song, 
even in its altered state. It does not appear in the cor- 



respondence; but it is probably one to be found in h'u 
MSS. beginning, 

« { Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
The gowden locks of Anna." 
It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain o. 
sentiment does not correspond with the air to winch he 
proposes it should be allied. E. 

* The original letter from Mr. Thomson contain* on r,y 
observations'™ the Scotish son-s, and on the manner i f 
adapting the words to the music, which, al his de.dro, are 
suppressed. The subsequent letter of Mi. Burns M 
several of these observations. K. 

+ The reader has already seer, that Burns did net finally 
adopt all cf Mr. Erskine'8 alterations E. 



i 



192 



LETTERS. 



Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is in my'opinion reprehen- 
sible. You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and 
point, you are a complete judge : but there is 
a quality more necessary than either, in a song, 
and which is the very essence of a ballad, 1 
mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I 
cannot approve of taking such liberties with 
an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The 
last time I came o'er the moor. Let a poet, if 
he chooses, take up the idea of another, and 
work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle 
the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and 
narrow house ; by Heaven 'twould be sacri- 
lege ! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an im- 
provement : but I know Mr. W. well, and es- 
teem him much ; let him mend the song, as the 
Highlander mended his gun — he gave it a 
new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not by this object to leaving out im- 
proper stanzas, where that can be done with- 
out spoiling the whole. One stanza in The 
Lass of Pane's Mill, must be left out : the song 
will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if 
we can take the same liberty with Corn rigs 
are bonnie. Perhaps it might want the last 
stanza, and be the better for it. Cauld kail in 
Aberdeen you must leave with me yet a while. 
I have vowed to have a song to that air, on 
the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses Poortith cauld and restless love. At any 
rate my other song, Green grow the rashes, 
will never suit. That song is current in Scot- 
land under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which of course would mar 
the progress of your song to celebrity. Your 
book will be the standard of Scots songs for 
the future : let this idea ever keep your judg 
ment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Mill Mill O* 

The last time I came o 'er the moor, I would 
fata attempt to make a Scots song for, and 
let Ramsay's be the English set. You shall 

• The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that given 
in the Poems, p. 89. The ballad to the Mill Mill 0, is that 
beginning 

« When wild war's deadly blast was olawn. 



hear from me soon. When you go to London 
on this business, can you come by Dumfries ? 
I have still several MS. Scots airs by me 
which I have picked up, mostly from the sing- 
ing of country lasses. They please me vastly ; 
but your learned lugs would perhaps be dis- 
pleased with the very feature for which 1 
like them. 1 call ithem simple ; you would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine 
air called Jackie Hume's Lament? 1 have a 
song of considerable merit to that air. I'll 
enclose you both the song and tune, as I had 
them ready to send to Johnson's Museum.* 
1 send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little 
air, which I had taken down from viva voce.j 

Adieu ! 



No. XXII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
April, 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I had scarcely put my last letter into the 
post-office, when I took up the subject of The 
last time I came o'er the moor, and, ere I slept, 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. t How 
far I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on 
every other occasion, to you to decide. I 
own my vanity is flattered, when you give my 
songs a place in your elegant and superb 
work ; but to be of service to the work is my 
first wish. As I have often told you, I do not 
in a single instance wish you, out of compli- 
ment to me, to insert any thing of mine. One 
hint let me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel 
does, let him not alter one iota of the original 
Scotish airs ; I mean in the song department ; 
but let our national music preserve its native 
features. They are, I own, frequently wild 
and irreducible to the more modern rules ; 
but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends 
a great part of their effect. 



No. XXIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, my dear Sir, for 



* The song here mentioned is that given in the Poems, 
p. 89. hen ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? This 
song is surely Mr. Burns's own writing, though he does 
not generally praise bis own songs so much. 

Note by Mr. Thomson. 

t The ail here mentioned is that for which he wrote 
the ballad of Bonnie Jean, given in p. 90 of the Poems. 

I See Poems, page 145.— Young Peggy. 



LETTERS. 



193 



our last two letters, and the songs which 
accompanied them. I am always both, in- 
structed and entertained by your observa- 
tions ; and the frankness with which you 
speak out your mind, is to me highly agree- 
able. It is very possible I may not have the 
true idea of simplicity in composition. I 
confess there are several songs, of Allan Ram- 
say's for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person, mure conversant than I 
have been with country people, would per- 
haps call simple and natural. But the lowest 
scenes of simple nature will not please gener- 
ally, if copied precisely as they are. The 
poet, like the painter, must select what will 
form an agreeable as well as a natural pic- 
ture. On this subject it were easy to en- 
large ; but at present suffice it to say, that I 
consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a 
most essential quality in composition,. and the 
ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 1 will 
gladly appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad, When wild war's deadly blast, &c. to 
the Mill Mill O, as well as the two other songs 
to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth lines of the first verse must undergo 
some little alteration in order to suit the 
music. Pieyel does not alter a single note 
of the songs. That would be absurd indeed ! 
With the airs which he introduces into the 
sonatas, 1 allow him to take such liberties as 
he pleases ; but that has nothing to do with 
the songs. 



P. S. I wish you w r ould do as you proposed 
with your Rigs of Barley. If the loose senti- 
ments are threshed out of it, I will find an air 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 

"When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me 
for doing any good among ballads. My own 
xoss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but 
the total ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss 
indeed. Pardon" my seeming inattention to 
your last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill 



Mill O.* What you think a defect I esteem as 
a positive beauty ; so you see how doctors 
differ. I shall now with as much alacrity 
as I can muster, go on with Your com- 
mands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh— he is here, instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife; and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing by 
the name of Liggeram Co3h, my bonnie wee 
lass. Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an 
expression that quite charms me. I became 
such an enthusiast about it, that I made a 
song for it, which I here subjoin ; and enclose 
Frazer's set of the tune. If they hit your 
fancy, they are at your service ; if not, return 
me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's 
Museum. I think the song is not in my worst 
manner. 

Blythe hae 1 been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 

See Poems, p. 90. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 
No. XXV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
25th June, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation on 
reading of those mighty villains who divide 
kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, 
and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness 
of ambition, or often from still more ignoble 
passions? In a mood of this kind to-day, I 

* The lines were the third and fourth. See Poems, 
p. 98. 

" Wi' mony a sweetbabe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning." 
As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first 
number of Mr. Thomson's Musical Work was in the press, 
this gentleman ventured by Mr. Erskine's advice, to sub- 
stitute for them in that publication, 

f And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 

That had been blear'd with mourning." 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior 
to the original. This is the only alteration adopted by 
Mr. Thomson, which Burns did not approve, or at least, 
assent to. 
C c 



194 



LETTEHS. 



recollected the air of Logan Water; and it oc- 
curred to me that its querulous melody pro- 
bably had its origin from the plaintive indig- 
nation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired 
at the tyrannic strides of some public de- 
stfoyer ; and overwhelmed with private dis- 
tress, the consequence of a country's ruin, 
if I have done any thing at all like justice to 
my feelings, the following song, composed in 
three quarters of an hour's meditation in my 
elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 



O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

See Poems, p. 90. 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs ? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 

See Poems, p. 90, 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful : 
and quite, so far as I know, original. It is 
too short for a song, else I would forswear 
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I 
have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in 
vain. After balancing myself for a musing 
five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow- 
chair, I produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion 
at all, they might be first in place ; as every 
poet, who knows any thing of his trade, will 
husband his best thoughts for a concluding 
stroke. 

O, were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi' purple blosoms to the spring ; 

See Poems, /». 90. 



No. XXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793. 

I am extremely sorry, my goo 1 Sir, that 
any thing should happen to unhinge you. The 
times are terribly out of tune ; and when har- 
mony will be restored, Heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let me 



be favoured with your opinion of it frankly 
and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song 
you have written for the Quaker's Wife ; it is 
quite enchanting. Pray will you return the 
list of songs with such airs added to it as you 
think ought to be included. The business 
now rests entirely on myself, the gentlemen 
who originally agreed to join the speculation 
having requested to be off. No matter, a 
loser 1 cannot be. The superior excellence of 
the work will create a general demand for it 
as soon as it is properly known. And were 
the sale even slower than it promises to be, I 
should be somewhat compensated for my la- 
bour, by the pleasure I shall receive from the 
music. I cannot express how much I am 
obliged to you for the exquisite new songs 
you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, 
are a poor return for what you have done : as 
I shall be benefited by the publication, you 
must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my 
gratitude,* and to repeat it afterwards when 
I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by 
Heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at 
an end : and though this would be no loss to 
you, it would mar the publication, which un- 
der your auspices cannot fail to be respectable 
and interesting. 



Wednesday Morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional 
verses to" the old fragment, and for your ex- 
cellent song to Logan Water ; Thomson's truly 
elegant one will follow, for the English 
singer. Your apostrophe to statesmen is ad- 
mirable : but I am not sure if it is quite suit- 
able to the supposed gentle character of the 
fair mourner who speaks it. 

No. XXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
July 2d, 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 have just finished the following ballad, 
and, as I do think it in my best style, I send 
it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air 
from Mrs. Bnrns's wood-note wild, is very fond 
of it, and has given it a celebrity, by teaching 
it to some young ladies of the .first fashion 
here. If you do not like the air enough to 

* Five Pounds. 



LETTERS. 



195 



f;\ve it a place in your collection, please re- 
turn it. The song you may keep, as I remem- 
ber it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

See Poems, p. 90 and 91. 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair 
ones, the themes of my songs, I do not mean 
the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so 
as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr. M. of D. one of your sub- 
scribers. I have not painted her in the rank 
which she holds in life, but in the dress and 
character of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 

I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes However to re- 
turn it would savour of affectation : but as to 
any more traffic of that debtor and creditor 
kind, I swear by that Honour which crowns 
the upright statue of Robert Burns's In- 
tegrity — on the least motion of it, I will in- 
dignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and 
from that moment commence entire stranger to 
you ! Burns's character for generosity of 
sentiment and independence of mind, will, I 
trust, long out-live any of his wants which the 
cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I 
will take care that such a character he shall 
deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication.' 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical 
work, such elegance and correctness. Your 
preface, too, is admirably written ; only your 
partiality to me has made you say too much : 
however, it will bind me down to double 
every effort in the future progress of the 
work. The following are a few remarks on 
the songs in the list you sent me. I never 
copy what! write to you, so I may be often 
tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

The Floicers of the Forest is charming as a 
poem, and should be, and must be, set to the 



notes ; but, though out of your rule, the throo 
stanzas beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling.'* 

are worthy of a place, were it but to im- 
mortalize the author of them, who is an old 
lady of my acquaintance and at this moment 
living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cock- 
burn ; I forget of what place ; but from 
Roxburghshire. What a charming apos- 
trophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why, why torment us— poor sons of a day !" 

The old ballad, I wish I were where Helen 
lies, is silly to contemptibility.* My altera- 
tion of it in Johnson's is not much better. Mr. 
Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient bal- 
lads (many of them notorious, though beauti- 
ful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is 
full of his own interpolations, but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the mean time, allow me 
to congratulate you now, as a brother of the 
quill. You have committed your character and 
fame : which will now be tried for ages to 
come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and 
Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy can 
please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some pre- 
tensioFxS to second sight ; and I am warranted 
by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your 
great-grand-child will hold up your volumes, 
and say, with honest pride, " This so much 
admired selection was the work of my an- 
cestor." 



No. XXIX. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinburgh, 1st August, 1793. 



I had the pleasure of receiving your last 
two letters, and am happy to find you are 
quite pleased with the appearance of the first 
book. When you come to hear the songs 

* There is a. copy of this ballad given in the account 
of the Parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleeming (which contains 
the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) in the Statistic* of Sir 
John Sinclair vol. xiii. p. 27.3, to which this character 
is certainly not applicable! 



196 



LETTERS. 



sung and accompanied, you will be charmed 
with them. 

The bonnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld Kail in Aberdeen — Let me in thisae night t 
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's 
leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her 
choice gifts : besides, you'll notice, that in 
airs of this sort, the singer can always do 
greater justice to the poet, than in the slower 
airs of The Bush aboon Traquair, Lord Gregory , 
and the like ; for in the manner the latter are 
frequently sung, you must be contented with 
the sound, without the sense. Indeed both 
the airs and words are disguised by the very 
slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which 
they are too often performed, they lose ani- 
mation and expression altogether ; and in- 
stead of speaking to the mind, or touching the 
heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a 
yawning ! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall un- 
doubtedly grace my collection. 



No. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



August, 1793. 



MY DEAR THOMSON, 



1 hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who 
at present is studying the music of the 
spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus 
he thinks is rather out of tune ; so until he 
rectify that matter, he cannot stoop to terres- 
trial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall 
^ n ve them. 



Confound your long stairs 



S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793, 
Your objection, my dear Sir, to the pas- 



sages in my song of Logan Water, is right in 
one iustance, but it is difficult to mend it: 
If I can, I will. The other passage you 
object to, does not appear in the same light 
to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and 
you will probably think, with little success , 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing 
better to it. 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

While larks with little wing, 
Fann'd the pure air, 

See Poems, p. 91. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
I always find myself most at home.' 

I have just put the last hand to the song I 
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the 
heroine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall 
also be pleased ; because I wish, and will be 
glad, to see you act decidedly on the busi- 
ness.* 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and 
as an editor, which you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 



August, 1793. 



MY GOOD SIR, 



I consider it one of the most agreeable 
circumstances attending this publication of 
mine, that it has procured me so many of your 
much valued epistles. Pray make my ac- 
knowledgments to St. Stephen for the tunes : 
tell him I admit the justness of his complaJ».t 
on my staircase, conveyed in his laconic post- 
script to your jeu d' esprit, which 1 perused 
more than once, without discovering exactly 
whether your discussion was music, astron- 
omy, or politics : though a sagacious friend, 
acquainted with the convivial habits of the 
poet and the musician, offered me a bet of two 
to one, you were just drowning care together ; 



• The song herewith cent, is that in p. 92. of the 
Poems. 



LETTERS 

that an empty bowl was the only thing that 
would deeply affect you, and the only matter 
you could then study how to remedy ! 



197 



I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adah' 
a Scotish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are 
well matched together. Robin's air is excel- 
lent, though he certainly has an out of the 
way measure as ever Poor Parnassian wight 
was plagued with. I wish you would invoke 
the muse for a single elegant stanza to be 
substituted for the concluding objectionable 
verses of Down the Burn Davie, so that this 
most exquisite song may no longer be exclud- 
ed from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous class, of songs : you will be quite 
charmed with it I promise you. The old 
couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. 
Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulders, while he smiles, and looks 
at her with such glee, as to show that he 
fully recollects the pleasant days and nights 
when they, were first acquent. The drawing 
would do honour to the pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum- crank um tune Robin Adair, 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventured in 
this morning's walk, one essay more. You, 
my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate 
part of our worthy friend C's story, which 
happened about three years ago. That struck 
my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea 
justice as follows : 

SONG. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar: 

See Poems, p. 91. 

By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, 
which are quartered here, who assures me 
that he well remembers his mother's singing 
Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair and Gra- 
machree. They certainly have more of the 
Scotch than Irish taste in them, 



This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness : so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wan- 
dering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used 
to go frequently errant through the wilds 
both of Scotland and Ireland, and so some 
favourite airs might be common to both. A , 
case in point — They have lately in Ireland, 
published an Irish air, as they say ; called 
Caun du delish. The fact is, in a publication 
of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find the 
same air, called a Highland one, with a 
Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is 
Oran Gaoil, and a fine air it is. Do ask hon- 
est Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about 
these matters. 



No. XXXIV 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOxMSON. 



August, 1793, 



MY DEAR SIR, 



Let me in this ae night, I will reconsider. 
I am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
Had I a cave, &c, as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a 
volume of the Museum in my hand ; when 
turning up Allan Water, " What numbers 
shall the muse repeat," &c. as the words 
appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an 
air, and recollectingthat it is on your list, 1 sat 
and raved under the shade of an old thorn, 
till I wrote one to suit the measure. I may 
be wrong ; but I think it not in my worst 
style. You must know, that in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, where the modern song first ap- 
peared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan 
says, is Allan Water, or My love A7inie's very 
bonnie. This last has certainly been a line of 
the original song ; so I took up the idea, and 
as you will see, have introduced the line in 
its place which 1 presume it formerly occu- 
pied ; though I likewise give you a causing 
line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi,* 

See Poems p. 91. 

Bravo ! say I : it is a good song. Should 
you think so too (not else,) you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as Eng- 
lish verses. 

* A mountain, west of Strath-Allan, 3,009 feet high. 
R.B. 



198 



Autumn is my propitious season. I 
more verses in it than all the year else. 

God bless you ! 



LETTERS. 

make 



No. XXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, one 
of your airs? I admire it much ; and yester- 
day I set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom I have met with here, begged them of 
me, as he admires the air much : but as 1 
understand that he looks with rather an evil 
eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. 
However, if the song does not suit your taste, 
I may possibly send it him. The set of the 
air which I had in my eye is in Johnson's 
Museum. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,* 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
See Poems, p. 92. 

Another favourite air of mine, is, The muck- 
in q 1 Geordie's Byre, when sung slow with 
expression ; I have wished that it had had bet- 
ter poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply 
as follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander,t 
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 
See Poems, p. 92. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular 
flame of his. She is a Miss P. M. sister to 
Bonnie Jean. They are both pupils of his. 
You shall hear from me the very first grist I 
get from my rhyming-mill. 



No. XXXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite 



* In some of the MSS. the four first lines run thus : 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo ; 
Tho* father and mother, and a' should say no, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo. 

See also Letter, No. LXXVII. 
t This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to more 
advantage without the chorus ; as is indeed the case with 
neveral other songs of our author. E. 



of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ;* when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, 
Coila, whispered me the following. I have 
two reasons for thinking that it was my early, 
sweet, simple inspirer that was by my elbow, 
" smooth gliding without step," and pouring 
the song on my glowing fancy. In the first 
place, since I left Coda's native haunts, not 
a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her 
solitary musings, by catching inspiration from 
her ; so I more than suspect that she has 
followed me hither, or at least makes me 
occasional visits : secondly, the last stanza of 
this song I send you, is the very words that 
Colia taught me many years ago, and which 
I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Mus- 
eum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

See Poems, p. 92. 

If you think the above will suit your idea 
of your favourite air, I shall be highly 
pleased. The last time I came o'er the moor, 
I cannot meddle with, as to mending it ; and 
the musical world have been so long ac- 
customed to Ramsay's words, that a different 
song, though positively superior, would not 
be so well received. I am not fond of chorus- 
es to songs, so I have not made one for the 
foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

DAINTY DAVIE.f 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 

lu deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 

See Poems, p. 93. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 

* Gloamin— twilight ; probably from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word which ought to be adopted in 
England. A gloamin shot, a twilight interview. 

t Daitity Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, from 
which Burns has taken nothing but the title and the meas- 
ure. E. 



jg ***» nonsense. Four 
four of chorus, is the way. 



LETTERS. 

lines of song, and 



199 



No. XXXVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinb urgh, 1st Sept. 1793. 



MY DEAR SIR. 



Since writing you last, I have received 
half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted 
beyond expression. The humour and fancy 
of Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, will 
render it nearly as great a favourite as Duncan 
Gray. Come, let me take thee to my breast— 
Adoicn winding Nith, and By Allan stream, &c, 
are full of imagination and feeling, and sweet- 
ly suit the airs for which tbey are intended. 
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, is 
a striking and affecting composition. Our 
friend, to whose story it refers, read it with a 
swelling heart, I assure you. The union we 
are now forming, 1 think, can never be 
broken; these songs of yours will descend 
with the music to the latest posterity, and 
will be fondly cherished so long as genius, 
taste and sensibility exist in our island. 

"While the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to enclose a list of all the fa- 
vours I have to ask of her, no fewer than 
twenty and three ! I have burdened the 
pleasant Peter with as many as it is probable 
he will attend to : most of the remaining airs 
would puzzle the English poet not a little ; 
they are of that peculiar measure and 
rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that 
any exertion in my power is heartily at your 
service. But one thing I must hint to you . 
the very name of Peter Pindar is of great ser- 
vice to your publication, so get a verse from 
him now and then ; though I have no objec- 
tion, as well as I can, to bear the burden of 
the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this 



reason, many musical compositions, particu- 
larly where much of the merit lies in counter- 
point, however they may transport and ravish 
the ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple 
lug no otherwise than merely as melodious 
din. On the other hand, by way of amends, 
I am delighted with many little melodies, 
which the learned musician despises as silly 
and insipid. I do not know whether the old 
air Hey tut tie taittie may raik among this 
number : but well 1 know that, with Frazer's 
hautboy, it . has often filled my eyes with 
tears. There is a tradition, which 1 have met 
with in many places of Scotland, that it was 
Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Ban- 
nockburn. This thought, in my solitary 
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusi- 
asm en the theme of Liberty and Independence, 
which I threw into a kind of Scotish ode, 
fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be 
the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic 
followers on that eventful morning.* 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
and Liberty, as He did that day !-— Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to 
make soft verses for it : but I had no idea of 
giving myself any trouble on the subject, till 
the accidental recollection of that glorious 
struggle for freedom, associated with the 
glowing ideas of some other struggles of the 
same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my 
rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
with his bass, you will find in the Museum ; 
though 1 am afraid that the air is not what 
will entitle it to a place in your elegant se- 
lection. 



No. XL. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will be- 
gin to think my correspondence is persecution. 
No matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my 
hobby-horse ; which though otherwise a sim- 
ple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, 
has yet this blessed headstrong property, that 
when once it has fairly made off with a hap- 
less wight, it gets so enamoured with the 
tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, 
that it is sure to run poor pilgarlic, the bed- 



* Here followed Bruce's address as given in the Foems 
p 81. 

This noble strain was conceived by our poet during n 
storm among the wilds of Glen.Ken in Galloway. 



200 



IiIIlTUitS. 



lam-jockey, quite beyond any useful point or 
post in the common race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran Gaoil, the Highland air that you tell me 
in your last, you have resolved to give a 
place to in your book. I have this moment 
finished the song, so you have it glowing from 
the mint. If it suit you, well !— if not, 'tis 
also well ! 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Thou, goest, thou darliDg of my heart ! 

See Poems, p. 93. 



No. XLI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 

I believe it is generally allowed that the 
greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the 
greatest merit. While you are sending me 
verses that even Shakspeare might be proud 
to own, you speak of them as if they were 
ordinary productions ! Your heroic ode is to 
me the noblest composition of the kind in the 
Scotish. language. I happened to dine yester- 
day with a party of your friends, to whom I 
read it. They were all charmed with it ; in- 
treated me to find out a suitable air for it, and 
reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so 
totally devoid of interest or grandeur as Hey 
tuttie taittie. Assuredly your partiality for 
this tune must arise from the ideas associated 
in your mind by the tradition concerning it ; 
for I never heard any person, and 1 have con- 
versed again and again, with the greatest en- 
thusiasts for Scotish airs, I say I never heard 
any one speak of it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 
and I think Lewie Gordon, is most 'happily 
adapted to your ode : at least with a very 
slight variation of the fourth line, which I 
shall presently submit to you. There is in 
Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the 
plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a 
degree of spirit, which your words would 
oblige the singer to give it. I would have no 
scruple about substituting your ode in the 
room of Lewie Gordon, which has neither the 
interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that 



characterize your verses. Now the variation 
I have to suggest upon the last line of each 
verse, the only line too short for the air, is as 
follows : 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. ' 
2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
3d, Let him, let him turn and flic, 
4th, Let him bravely follow mc. 
5th, But then shall, they shall be free. 
&h, Let us, let us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse 
I do not think you will find that either the 
sentiment or the expression loses any of its 
energy. The only line which I dislike in the 
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your 
gory bed." Would not another word be pre- 
ferable to welcome? In your next I will expect 
to be informed whether you agree to what I 
have proposed. The little alterations I sub- 
mit with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
Oran Gaoil will ensure celebrity to the air. 



No. XLII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and 
here go my observations on it.* 

Down the burn Davie. I have this moment 
tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of 
the third stanza, and the first half of the last 
stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew V 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."f 

Thro' the wood Laddie — I am decidedly ot 
opinion, that both in this, and There'll never 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. In his 
remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes through the 
whole ; but on many of them he merely signifies his ap- 
probation. All his remarks of any importance are pre- 
sented to the reader. 

t This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at least 
intended to adopt,) instead of the last stanza of the ori- 
ginal song, which is objectionable in point of delicacy. E« 



LETTERS. 



201 



be peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or 
high part of the tone, being a repetition of the 
first part an octave higher, is only for instru- 
mental music, one would be much better omit- 
ted in singing. 

Cowden-knowes. Remember sn your index 
that the song.in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

' When summer comes the swains on Tweed," 

is the production of Crawford. Robert was 
his Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own singing 
(such as it is,) I can never compose for it. 
My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musical ex- 
pression ; then choose my theme ; begin one 
stanza ; when that is composed, which is 
generally the most difficult part of the busi- 
ness, I walk out, sit down now and then, look 
out for objects in nature around me that are 
in unison and harmony with the cogitations of 
my fancy, and workings of my bosom ; hum- 
ming every now and then the air, with the 
verses I have framed. When I feel my muse be- 
ginning to jade, 1 retire to the solitary fire-side 
of my study, and there commit my effusions 
to paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind 
legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling 
forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes 
on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
variably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill Morice, I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguy length; the air itself is never sung; 
and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your 
list. For instance, Craigie-burn-wood and Roy's 
Wife. The first, beside its intrinsic merit, 
has novelty; and the last has high merit, 
as well as great celebrity. I have the origin- 
al words of a song for the last air, in the hand- 
writing of the lady who composed it ; and 
they are superior to any edition of the song 
which the public has yet seen.* 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please a 
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 
ized one. There is a third, and what Oswald 
calls the old Highland Laddie, which pleases 
more than either of them. It is sometimes 
called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being the air of an 
old humorous tawdry song of that name. 

# This song, so much admired by our bard, will be 
found at the bottom of p. 216. E. 



You will find it in the Museum, / hae been at 
Crookieden, &c. I would advise you in this 
musical quandary, to offer up your prayers 
to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in 
the mean time, waiting for this direction 
bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there is 
not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious 
choice. Probatum Est. 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, 
and put in its place The Quaker's Wife. 

Blithe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and be- 
sides, is composed on a young lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. 
As 1 purpose giving you the names and de- 
signations of all my heroines, to appear in 
some future edition of your work, perhaps 
half a century hence, you must certainly in- 
clude The bonniest lass in a' the warld in your 
collection. 

Dainty Davie, I have heard sung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so 
much as your opinion on this subject. If it 
will not suit as 1 proposed, we will lay two of 
the stanzas together, and then make .the cho- 
rus follow. 



Fee him father — I enclose you Frazer's set of 
this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact he 
makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style, mere- 
ly to try if it will be any improvement. Were 
it possible, in singing to give it half the pathos 
which Frazer gives it in playing, it would 
make an admirably pathetic song. I do not 
give these verses for any merit they have. I 
composed them at the time in which Patie 
Allan's mither died, that was about the back o' 
midnight; and by the lee-side of a bowl of 
punch, which had overset every mortal in 
company, except the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou has left 

me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 

See Poems, p. 93. 

Jockey and Jenny I would discard, and in its 
place would put There's nae luck about the 
house, which has a very pleasant air, and 
which is positively the finest love ballad in 
that style in the Scotish or perhaps in any 
other language. When she came ben she bob- 
bit, as an air, is more beautiful than either, 
D d 



202 



LETTERS. 



and in the andante way, would unite with a 
charming sentimental ballad. 

Saw ye my Father? is one of my greatest fa- 
vourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song ; in what 1 think 
is its native style. I must premise, that the 
old way, and the way to give most effect, is to 
have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
but to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings — Saw ye my father, &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceeded, to know your opinion 
of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scolish 
dialect, but it may be easily turned into cor- 
rect English.* 



Todlin liame. Urbani mentioned an idea of 
his, which has long been mine ; that this air 
is highly susceptible of pathos ; accordingly, 
you will soon hear him at your concert try it 
to a song of mine in the Museum; Ye banks 
and braes o' lonnie Doon. One song more and 
I have done : Auld lang syne. The air is but 
mMiocre ; but the following song, the old song 
of the olden times, and which has never been 
in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took 
it down from an old man's singing, is enough 
to recommend any air.f 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

See Poems , p. 93. 

Now, I suppose I have tired yonr patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. Gill 
Morice, Tranent Muir, M'Pherson's Farewell, 
Battle of Sheriff Muir, or We ran and they ran 
(I know the author of this charming ballad, 
and his history), Hardilviute, Barbara Allan 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any 
that has yet appeared,) and besides, do you 
know that I really have the old tune to which 
The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; and which 
is mentioned as a well known air in Scotland's 
Complaint, a book published before poor 
Mary's days. It was then called The Banks o' 
Helicon ; an old poem which Pinkerton has 
brought to light. You will see all this in 
Tytler's history of Scotish music. The tune, 
to a learned ear, may have no great merit; but 

» This eong begins, 

- Where are the joys I hae met in the morning.' E. 
f This song of the olden time is excellent. It is worthy 
of our bard. 



it is a great curiosity. I have a good many 
original things of this kind. 



No. XLIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September y 1793. 

I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode 
pleases you so much. Your idea, " honour's 
bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed 
idea ; so, if you please, we will let the line 
stand as it is. I have altered the song as fol- 
lows : 

.BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 

See Poems, p. 94. 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserably. One 
comfort ! — I suffer so much, just now, in this 
world, for last night's joviality, that I shall 
escape scot-free for it in the world to come.— 
Amen. 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

12th September, 1793. 
A thousand thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own, respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About some of 
them we differ, but there is no disputing about 
hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit by the 
remarks you make ; and to re-consider the 
whole with attention. 

Dainty Davie, must be sung two stanzas to- 
gether, and then the chorus : 'tis the proper 
way. 1 agree with you that there may be 



something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of Fee him Father, when performed 
with feeling : but a tender cast may be given 
almost to any lively air, if you sing it very 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words. 
I am, however, clearly and invariably for re- 
taining the cheerful tunes joined to their own 
humorous verses, wherever the verses are 
passable. But the sweet song for Fee him 
Father, which you began about the back of 
midnight, I will publish as an additional one. 
Mr. James Balfour, the king of good fellows, 
and the best singer of the lively Scotish bal- 
l-ads that ever existed, has charmed thousands 
of companies with Fee him Father, and with 
Todlin hanie also, to the old words, which 
n-ever should be disunited from either of these 
airs— Some Bacchanals I would wish to dis- 
card. Fy, lets a* to the Bridal, for instance, is 
so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only to 
be sung in a company of drunken colliers ; 
and Saw ye my Father? appears to me both 
indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the 
poet, that a prudent general would avoid say- 
ing any thing to his soldiers which v/ould 
tend to make death more frighful than it is. 
Gory presents a disagreeable image to the 
mind, and to tell them " Welcome to your 
gory bed," seems rather a discouraging ad- 
dress, notwithstanding the alternative which 
follows. I have shown the song to three 
friends of excellent taste, and each of them 
objected to this line, which emboldens me to 
use the freedom of bringing it again under 
your notice. I would suggest, 

«* Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disa- 
gree?" My ode pleases me so much that I 
cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it lame. I am 
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me 
on reconsidering it ; as I think I have much 
improved it. Instead of " soger ! hero !" I 
will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
the world some way or other it shall go as it 



I/ETTERS. 20S 

is. At the same time it will not in the lea9t 
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, 
and adhere to your first intention of adopting 
Logan's verse9.* 

I have finished my song to Sato ye my 
Father ? and in English, as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression 
of the air, is true ; but allow me to say, that 
the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a 
crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter ; 
however, in that 1 have no pretensions to cope 
in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak 
with confidence ; but the music is a business 



# Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted tins song (if 
it may be so called,) as the bard presented it to him. He 
has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps 
among the existing airs he could not find a better ; but 
the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of music, and 
may employ the genius of some Scotish Handel, if any 
such should in future arise. The reader will have ob- 
served, that Burns adopted the alterations proposed by his 
friend and correspondent in former instances, with great 
readiness : perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occasions. 
In the present instance, however, he rejected them, 
though repeatedly urged, with determined resolution. 
With every respect for the judgment of Mr. Thomson and 
his friends, we may be satisfied that he did so. He, who 
in preparing for an engagement, attempts to withdraw his 
imagination from images of death, will probably have but 
imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks 
of battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are ai issue. Of 
such men the conquerors of Bannockburn were not com- 
posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar 
with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that 
memorable day, their spirits were, without doubt, wound 
up to a pitch of enthusiasm, suited to the occasion : a 
pitch of enthusiasm, at which danger becomes attractive, 
and the most terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. 
Such a strain of sentiment, this heroic " welcome'' may 
be supposed well calculated to elevate— to raise their hearts 
high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost 
pitch of mortal exertion. These observations might be 
illustrated and supported by a reference to that martial 
poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring strains of 
Tyrtaeus, to the war-song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thom. 
son's observation, that " Welcome to your gory bed, is a 
discouraging address," seems not sufficiently considered. 
Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory 
is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its presenting 
a frightful, but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a 
great poet, uttering his conceptions oa an interesting oc- 
casion, seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, 
and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste 
on the altar of the imagination. And it is the privilege of 
superior genius, by producing a new association, to elevato 
expressions that were originally low, and thus to triumph 
over the deficiencies of language. In how many instances 
might this be exemplified from the works of our immor- ( 
tal Shakspeare ; 

«« Who would fardels boar, 
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;— 
When ho himself might his quietus make 
With a. bare bodkin !'* 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such reflection! 
is probably sufficient. 



204 LETTERS. 

where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffi- 
dence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular : my advice is, to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are — 

FAIR JENNY. 

See p. 202. 

Tune— 1 * Saw ye my Father ?" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song? 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so 1 
shall defer some other remarks until more 
leisure. 



No. XLVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would 
suit the airs, for which you have allotted me 
to find English songs. 

For Muirland Willie* you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning, 
** Ah! why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As 
for The Collier's Dochter, take the following 
old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

See Poems, p. 94. 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus: 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 

The song otherwise will pass. As to 
M'Gregoira Rua Ruth, you will see a song of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to 
yours, in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The 
* r >ng begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the Banks 



of Banna, for instance, though really Irish, 
yet in the Scotish taste, you might adopt 
them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, 
what say you to twenty-five of them in an ad- 
ditional number? We could easily find this 
quantity of charming airs: I will take care 
that you shall not want songs ; and I assure 
you that you would find it the most saleable 
of the whole. If you do not approve of Roy's 
Wife, for the music's sake, we shall not in- ' 
sert it. Deil tak the wars, is a charming song ; 
so is, Saw ye my Peggy? There's nae luck about 
the house, well deserves a place. I cannot 
say that, O'er the hills and far awa, strikes me 
as equal to your selection. This is no mine ain 
house, is a great favourite air of mine : and if 
you will send me your set of it, I will task 
my muse to her highest effort. What is your 
opinion of J hae laid a Herrin in sawt f I like 
it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; and 
there are many others of the same kind, 
pretty ; but you have not room for them. You 
cannot, I think, insert Fie let us a' to the bridal, 
to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
reason, Fie, gie me my cogie, sirs — Fie let us 
a' to the bridal, with several others of that 
cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, Saw 
ye my Father, or saw ye my Mother ; delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus 
my song, Ken ye ivhat Meg o' the Mill has 
gotten? pleases myself so much, that 1 cannot 
try my hand at another song to the air; so I 
shall not attempt it. 1 know you will laugh 
at all this : but, " Ilka man wears his belt his 
ain gait." 



No. XLVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was 
indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine !* The recollection that he was a 
coadjutor in your publication, has till now 
scared me from writing to you, or turning my 
thoughts on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker's Wife; though, by the by, 
an old Highland gentleman, a'nd a deep anti- 

# The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, 
whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated 
in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. 



LETTERS. 



205 



quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known 
by the name of Leiger 'm choss. The follow- 
ing verses, I hope, will please you, as an Eng- 
lish song to the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquain- 
tance of mine, and I think has merit. The 
song was never in print, which I think is so 
much in your favour. The more original good 
poetry your collection contains, it certainly 
has so much the more merit. 



SONG. 
BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

O, condescend, dear charming maid, 
My wretched state to view ; 

A tender swain to love betray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate r 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain, 
The urchin's power denied ; 

1 laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still, 

And love thee more and more. 



The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Nightingale, will suit as an English song to 
the air, There was a lass and she teas fair. By 
the by, Turnbull has a great many songs in 



MS. which I can command, if you like his 
manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour, but 
I like some of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid, 
And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Vet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuna 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's 
which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. 



LAURA. 

BY G. TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood or winding rill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I chuse, 

To indulge the smiling muse ; 

If I court some cool retreat, 

To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 

If beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Through unfrequented wilds 1 slray ; 

Let me wander wheie I will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

W T hen at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 



206 

And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Thro' the fairy -land of love ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



LETTERS, 



The rest of your letter I 
some other opportunity. 



shall answer at 



No. XLVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



7th November, 1793. 



MY GOOD SIR, 



After so long a silence, it gave me peculiar 
pleasure to recognize your well-known hand, 
for I had begun to be apprehensive that all 
was not well with you. I am happy to find 
however, that your silence did not proceed 
from that cause, and that you have got among 
the ballads once more. 



I have to thank you for your English song 
to Leiger 'mchoss, which I think extremely 
good, although the colouring is warm. Your 
friend JVlr. Turnbull's songs have, doubtless, 
considerable merit ; and as you have the com- 
mand of his manuscripts, 1 hope you will find 
out some that will answer, as English songs, 
to the airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses 
to the tune of Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

See Poems, p. 95. 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

See Poems, p. 114. 



No. L„ 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 17th April, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had 
not an opportunity, till lately, of perusing it.* 
How sorry 1 am to find Burns saying, " Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while 
he is delighting others from one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his case 
— Go, says the doctor, and see the famous 
Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour. 
Alas ! Sir, replied the patient, I am that un- 
happy Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place ; but your 
Bacchanalian challenge almost frightens me, 
for I am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral 
and humorous kind, he is, perhaps, unrivalled 
by any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his col- 
ouring is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutor's Dochter, and 
will consider whether it shall be added to the 
last volume ; your verses to it are pretty: but 
your humorous English song, to suit Jo Janet, 
is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
Within a mile of Edinburgh ? It has always 
struck me as a modern imitation, but it is said 
to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I be- 
lieve I must include it. The verses are little 
better than namby pamby. Do you consider it 
worth a stanza or two ? 



No. LI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. j 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I return you the plates, with which I am 

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, No. CL. oT the General 
Correspondence. 



207 



highly pleased ; I would humbly propose in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
' mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject £ have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the 
Burin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. 
I got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's chusing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped 
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she 
calls The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
romantic stream ; and as her Ladyship is a 
particular friend of mine, I have written the 
following song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower ; 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

See Poems, p. 95. 



No. LIJ. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies 
set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the 
savage thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas 
the day ! And wo is me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of mil- 
lions.*— ****** 

t have presented a copy of your songs to 
the daughter of a much-valued and much- 
honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham, of 
Fintry. I wrote on the blank side of the 
title page the following address to the young 
lady : 

Here, where the Scotish muse immortal 

lives 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 
See Poems, p. 95. 

* A portion of this letter has been left out for reasons 
that will easily be imaeined. 



letters- 
No. LIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 10th August, 1794. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

I owe you an apology for having so long 
delayed to acknowledge the favour of your 
last. I fear it will be as you say, I shall have 
no more songs from Pleyel til? France and we 
are friends ; but nevertheless, I am very 
desirous to be prepared with the poetry ; and 
as the season approaches in which your muse 
of Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, 
be frequently gratified with the result of your 
amorous and tender interviews ! 



No. 
MR. BURNS TO 



LIV. 

MR. THOMSON. 

30M August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out, 
and thinking of, O'er the hills and far away, I 
spun the following stanzas for it ; but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in 
store, like the precious thread of the silk 
worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile 
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear 
Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was 
pleased with several lines in it at first : but I 
own that now it appears rather a flimsy busi- 
ness. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
whether it be worth a critique. We have 
many sailor songs, but as far as I at present 
recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the 
jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn 
mistress. 1 must here make one sweet excep, 
tion — Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came 
Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
W hen absent from my sailor lad ? 
See Poems, p. 96. 
I give you leave to abuse this song, but d 
it in the spirit of Christian meekness. 



No. LV. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 16th September, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

You have anticipated my opinion of On 



208 LETTERS 

the seas and far away ; 1 do not think it one \ I shall give you my opinion of your othei 
of your very happy productions, though it newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 
certainly contains stanzas that are worthy 
of all acceptation. 



The second is the least to my liking, 
particularly " Bullets, spare my only joy !" 
Confound the bullets ! It might, perhaps, be 
objected to the third verse, " At the starless 
midnight hour," that it has too much grandeur 
of imagery, and that greater simplicity of 
thought would have better suited the character 
of a sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must 
be remembered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. 
Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble 
opinion, the song would be better adapted to 
the tune, if it consisted only of the first and 
last verses with the choruses. 



No. LVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
I shall withdraw my, On the seas and far 
away, altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
son : you cannot know whether you have a 
wise man or a fool, until you produce him to 
the world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of 
my brain, abortions and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn* 
them. I am flattered at your adopting Ca' the 
yowes to the knowes, as it was owing to me that 
ever it saw the light About seven years ago 
I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who 
sung it charmingly ; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When 
I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to 
the song and mended others, but still it will 
not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I 
took to-day. I tried my hand on a few pastoral 
lines, following up the idea of the chorus, 
which I would preserve. Here it is, with all 
its 'crudities and imperfections on its head. 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
*(Ja' them whare the heather grows, 

See Poems, p. 96. 

, • This Virgilian order of the poet should, I think, be 
disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the second 
stanza excepted. Note by Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza does 
not strike the Editor. E. 



No. LVII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song called 
Onagh's Water-fall*. The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every ef- 
fort of hers shall have merit ; still I think that 
it is better to have mediocre verses to a fa- 
vourite air, than none at all. On this princi- 
ple I have all along proceeded in the Scots 
Musical Museum ; and as that publication is 
at its last volume, I intend the following song 
to the air above-mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can 
sing before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A.' 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 

See Poems, p. 96. 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that 
he frequently admired what the connoisseurs 
decried, and always without any hypocrisy 
confessed his admiration. I am sensible that 
my taste in music must be inelegant and vul- 
gar, because people of undisputed and cultiva- 
ted taste can find no merit in my favourite 
tunes. Still, because 1 am cheaply pleased, 
is that any reason why I should deny myself 
that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys, an- 
cient and modern, give me most exquisite 
enjoyment, where you and other judges would 
probably be showing disgust. For instance, I 
am just now making verses for Rothiemurchie" s 
Rant, an air which puts me in raptures ; and, 
in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I 
never can make verses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side who is a judge that I will 
pit against any of you. Rothiemurchie, he says, 
is an air both original and beautiful ; and on 
his recommendation I have taken the first part 
of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last 
part for the song. I am but two stanzas deep 
in the work, and possibly you may think and 



LETTEHS . 



justly, that the poetry, ia as little worth your 
Attention as the music* 

I have begun anew, Let me m this ae night. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I 
do not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would 
you have the dtnofonent to be successful or 
otherwise ? should she " let him in," or not ? 



Did you not once propose The Sow's Tail to 
Geordie,a,$ an air for your work? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is 
no mark of its real excellence. I once set 
about verses for it, which I meant to be in the 
alternate way of a lover and his mistress 
chanting together. I have not the pleasure 
of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, 
and yours I am afraid is rather burlesque for 
sentiment, else I had meant to have made you 
the hero and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely 
young girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor 
Maxwell was the physician who seemingly 
saved her from the grave; and to him I ad- 
dress the following. 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

On Miss Jessy Staig's Recovery. 

Max well, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny: 
You save fair Jessy from the grave?— 

An angel could not die, 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! 



No LVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now at- 
tendant upor her favourite poet, whose wood- 
notes wild are becoming as enchanting as ever. 
Slie says she lo'es me best of a', is one of the 



* In the original, follow here two stanzas of a song, be- 
.«..=..«« rj,«i wi the lint-white locks. 



209 

pleasantest table-songs I have seen, and 
henceforth shall be mine when the song is go- 
ing round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he 
can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am 
far from undervaluing your taste for the strath- 
spey music ; on the contrary, I think it highly 
animating and agreeable, and that some of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman ; without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 



I am clear for having the Sow's Tail, parti- 
cularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only fit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs. Thomson's name (Katherine) is not at all 
poetical. Retain Jeanie therefore, and make 
the other Jamie, or any other that sounds 
agreeably. 



Your Ca the ewes is a precious little mor- 
ceau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished and 
charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. 
Here let me ask you, whether you never seri- 
ously turned your thoughts upon dramatic 
writing ? That is afield worthy of your genius, 
in which it might shine forth in all its splen- 
dor. One or two successful pieces upon the 
London stage would make your fortune. The 
ra^e at present is for musjcal dramas : few or 
none of those which have appeared since the 
Duenna, possess much poetical merit : there is 
little in the conduct of the fable, or in the dia- 
logue, to interest the audience. They are 
chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I 
think you might produce a comic opera in 
three acts, which would live by the poetry, at 
the same time that it would be proper to take 
every assistance from her tuneful sister. Part 
of the songs, of course, would be to our fa- 
vourite Scotish airs ; the rest might be left to 
the London composer — Storace for Drury-lane, 
or Shield for Covent-garden : both of them 
very able and popular musicians. I believe 
that interest and manoeuvring are often neces- 
sary to have a drama brought on ; so it may 
be with the namby pamby tribe of flowery 
scribblers ; but were you to'address Mr. Sher- 
idan himselt by letter, and send him a dra- 
matic piece, 1 am persuaded he would, for the 
honour of genius, give it a fair and c,andid 
trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints 
upon your consideration.* 

* Our bard had before received the same advice, and 
certain i took it so far into consideration, as to have cast 
about for a subject. E. 

Ee 



210 



No. LIX. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinburgh, Itth October, 1794 



The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scotish collections. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consi- 
dered, till 1 am half blind and wholly stupid. 
The few airs 1 have added, are enclosed. 



BETTERS. 

own collection, 1 have been as much guided 
by the living as by the dead. Where these 
differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to 
me the most simple and beautiful, and the 
most generally approved : and without mean- 
ing any compliment to my own capability ol 
choosing, or speaking of the pains I have 
taken, I flatter myself that my sets will be 
found equally freed from vulgar errors on the 
one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gen* 
eral elegant and beautiful. Have you heard 
of a London collection of Scotish airs and 
songs, just published by Mr. Ritson, an Eng- 
lishman ? I shall send you a copy. His intro- 
ductory essay on the subject is curious, and 
evinces great reading and research, but does 
not decide the question as to the origin of our 
melodies ; though he shows clearly that Mr. 
Tytler, in his ingenious dissertation, has ad- 
duced no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wish- 
ed to establish ; and that his classification of 
the airs according to thereras,, when they were 
composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On 
John Pinkerton, Esq. he has no mercy j but 
consigns him to damnation ! He snarls at my 
publication, on the score of Pindar being en- 
gaged to write songs for it ; uncandidly and 
unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the 
songs of Scotish writers had been sent a pack- 
ing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he 
speaks with some respect, but gives you a 
passing hit or two, for daring to dress up a 
little, some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
His sets of the Scotish airs, are taken, he 
says, from the oldest collections and best au- 
thorities : many of them, however, have such 
a ptrange aspect, and are so unlike the sets 
which are sung by every person of taste, old 
or young, in town or country, that we can 
scarcely recognize the features of our favour- 
ites. By going to the oldest collections of 
our music, it does not follow that we find the 
melodies in their ©riginal state. These melo- 
dies bad been preserved, we know not how 
long, by oral communication, before being col- 
lected and printed ; and as different persons 
sing the same air very differently, according 
to their accurate or confused recollection of it, 
so, even supposing the first collectors to have 
possessed the industry, the taste, and discern- 
ment to choose the best they could hear (which 
is far from certain,) still it must evidently be 
a chance, whether the collections exhibit any 
of the melodies in the state they were first 
composed. In selecting the melodies for my 



No. LX. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



19th October, 1794. 



MY DEAR FRIEND, 



By this morning's post I have your list, 
and, in general, I highly approve of it. I 
shall, at more leisure give you a critique on 
the whole. Clarke goes to your own town by 
to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him 
and take his opinion in general : you know his 
taste is a standard. He will return here again 
in a week or two ; so, please do not miss 
asking for him. One thing I hope he will 
do, persuade you to adopt my favourite, Crai- 
gie- burn-wood, in your selection ; it is as 
great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady 
on whom it was made, is one of the finest 
women in Scotland ; and in fact Centre nous J 
is in a manner to me, what Sterne's Eliza was 
to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will 
in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. 
(Now don't put any of your squinting con- 
structions on this or have any clish-maclaver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
you that to my lovely friend you are indebted 
for many of your best songs of mine. Do you 
think that the sober, gin-horse routine of ex- 
istence, could inspire a man with life, and 
love, and joy— could fire him with enthusiasm, 
or melt him with pathos; equal to the genius 
of your book ? No ! no ! — Whenever I want to 
be more than ordinary in song; to be in some 
degree equal to your diviner airs ; do you 
imagine that I fast and pray for the celestial 
emanation ? Tcut au contraire! 1 have a glo- 
rious recipe ; the very one that for his own 
use was invented by the divinity of healing 
and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks oi 
Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of ad- 
miring a fine woman ; and in proportion to the 
adorability of her charms, in the proportion you 
are delighted with my verses. The lightning 
of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus; und 
the witchery of her smile, the divinity of Heli- 
con ! 



BETTERS 



To descend to business ; if you like my 
idea of When she cam ben she bobbil, the fol- 
lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little from 
what they were formerly when set to another 
air, may perhaps do instead of worse stan- 
zas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

O, saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
O, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
Posie, (in the Museum) is my composition ; 
the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's 
voice.* It is well known in the West Coun- 
try, but the old words are trash. By the by, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which Roslin 
Castle is composed. The second part in par- 
ticular, forthe first two or three bars, is ex- 
actly the old air. Strathallan's Lament is mine ; 
the music is by our right trusty and deserved- 
ly well-beloved Allan Masterton. Donocht- 
Head is not mine; I would give ten 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the 
Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of 
that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on 
it.f Whistle o'er the lave o'l is mine: the 

* The Posie will be found in the Poems, p. 113. This, 
and the other poems of which he speaks, had appeared 
in Johnson's Museum, and Mr T. had inquired whether 
they were our bard's. 

t The reader will be curious to see this poem, so highly 
praised by Burns. Here it is. 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head, • 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale ; 
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' tale : 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in,. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa'; 
And dinna let his_winding sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

•« Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew ; 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drooe I blew." 
My Eppie waked and soon she cried, 

« Get up, guidman, and let him in j 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Eppie 's v6ice O wow it's sweet, 

Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee ; 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ; 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

111 make it bleeze a bonnie flamej 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate, 

Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame. 

* A mountain in the North. 



2L1 

music is said to be by a John Bruce, a cele- 
brated violin-player in Dumfries, about the 
beginning of this century. This I know, 
Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red- 
wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; and 
by all the oldest musical people here, is be- 
lieved to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty Gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

How long and dreary is the night ! I met with 
some such words in a collection of songs some- 
where, which I altered and enlarged ; and to 
please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, 
and have arranged it anew, as you will find 
on the other page. 

SONG. 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a "great deal of tenderness in it. 
You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a 
bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my ac- 
quaintance, a noted performer, plays and 
sings at the same time so charmingly, that I 
shall never bear to see any of her songs sent 
into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye- 
call-um has done in his London collection.* 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language (hat 
I have of my native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : 



Let not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love ; 

See Poems, p. 97. 
Since the above, I have been out in the 

« Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
«• Sad party-strife o'crtiirn'd my ha'; 

And weeping at (he eve of life, 
1 wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." 

This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. Tha 
author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is woi thj 
of Bums, or of Macneil. E. 

# Mr. Ritson. 



£12 



LETTERS, 



country, taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom I mentioned in the 
second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. 
As usual I got into song f -and returning home 
I composed the following ; 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 

MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; 
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,* t 

See Poems, p. 86. 

If you honour my verses by setting the air 
to them, I will vamp up the old song, and 
make it English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scotish one. I know the authenticity of it, 
as the gentleman who brought it over, is a 
particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve 
me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I 
have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend 
putting it into the Musical Museum. Here 
follow the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoic'd the day. 

See Poems, p. 98. 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection of Eng- 
lish songs, which you mention in your letter. 
1 will thank you for another .information, and 
that as speedily as you please : whether this 
miserable drawling hotchpotch epistle has not 
completely tired you of my correspondence ? 

• From the fifth to the eleventh line of this song stood 
originally thus : 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely wildly, wanton stray; 

in twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours; 

The lav'rock, &c. - 

t The last eight lines stood originally thus : 
When frae my Chloris parted, 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted. 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky. 
But when she charms my sight, 
In pride of beauty's light ; 
When thro' my very heart 
Her blooming glories dart : 
»Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life/and joy. E 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 

I am sensible, my dear friend, that a gen- 
uine poet can no more exist without his mis- 
tress than his meat. I wish 1 knew the ador- 
able she whose bright eyes and witching 
smiles have so often enraptured the Scotish 
bard ! that I might drink her sweet health 
when the toast is going round. Cragie-burn 
wood, must certainly be adopted into my 
family, since she is the object of the song ; 
but in the name of decency I must beg a new 
chorus-verse from you. O to be lying beyond 
thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to be 
wished, but will not do for singing in the com- 
pany of ladies. The songs in your last will 
do you lasting credit, and suit the respective 
airs charmingly. 1 am perfectly of your 
opinion with respect to the additional airs. 
The idea of sending them into the world naked 
as they were born was ungenerous. They 
must all be clothed and made decent by our 
friend Clarke. 

I find 1 am anticipated by the friendly 
Cunningham in sending you Ritson's Scotish 
collection. Permit me, therefore, to present 
you with his English collection, which you 
will receive by the coach. I do not find his 
historical essay on Scotish song interesting. 
Your anecdotes and miscellaneous' remarks 
will, 1 am sure, be much more so. Allan has 
just sketched a charming design from Maggie 
Lauder. She is dancing with such spirit as 
to electrify the piper, who seems almost dan- 
cing too, while he is playing with the most 
exquisite glee. I am much inclined to get a 
small copy, and to have it engraved in the 
style of Ritson's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say 
concerning Maggie Lauder ? was she a real 
personage, and of what rank ? You would 
surely .spier for her if you ca'd at Anstruther 
town. 



No. LXII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November 1791. 

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for youi 

present. It is a book of the utmost import- 

| ance to me. I have yesterday begun my 



LETTERS. 



213 



anecdotes, &c. for yotir work. r I intend 
drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, 
which will save me from the tedious, dull 
business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, 
as all I have to say consists of unconnected 
remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &e., 
it would be impossible to give the work a 
^egiiwiing, a middle, and an end, which the 
critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a 
work.* In my last, I told you my objections 
to the song you had selected for My Lodging 
is on the cold ground. On my visit the other 
day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
of the lovely goddess of my inspiration,) she 
suggested an idea, which I, in my return 
from the visit, wrought into the following 
song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair ; 

See Poems, p. 98. 

How do you like the simplicity and tender- 
ness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

Hike yourentering so candidly and so kindly 
into the story of Ma chere Amie. I assure you 
I was never more in earnest in my life, than 
in the account of that affair which I sent you 
in my last. — Conjugal love is a passion which 
I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, some- 
how, it does not make such a figure in poesy 
as that other species of the passion, 

« Where love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, 
but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the 
last has powers equal to all the intellectual 
modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a 
very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. 
The welfare and happiness of the beloved 
object is the first and inviolate sentiment that 
pervades my soul ; and whatever pleasures I 
might wish for, or whatever might be the 
raptures they would give me, yet, if they 
interfere with that first principle, it is having 
these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and 
justice forbids, and generosity disdains the 
purchase! * * * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs, 



* It does not appear whether Burns* completed these 
anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the rude 
draughts,) was found amongst his papess, and appears in 
Appendix No. II. Note B. 



of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want; and, with a little alteration, so 
as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to 
give you them for youi work. Where the 
songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor 
have ever been set to music, 1 think the shift 
a fair one. A song, which, under the same 
first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea- 
Table Miscellany, I have cut down for an 
English dress to your Daintie Davie, as fol- 
lows : 

SONG. 

Altered from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 

See Poems, p. 98. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Rothiemurchie's Rant ; 
and you have Clarke to consult as to the set 
of the air for singing. 

LASSIE WI* THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.* 



Lassie wV the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

See Poems t p. 90. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the sum- 
mer noon, the autumnal evening, and the 
winter night, are regularly rounded. If you 
like it, well : if not, I will insert it m the 
Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the 
silliness of Saw ye my fat her ? by heavens! 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
song, though now pretty well modernized 
into the Scotish language, is> originally, and 
in the early editions, a bungling low imita- 
tion of the Scotish manner, by that genius 
Tom D'Urfey ; so has no pretensions to be a 
Scotish production. There is a pretty English 
song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, to this air, 

* In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song rui s 
thus : 

And should the howling wint'ry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 
And«comfoit thee my dearie O. 



214 



LETTERS, 



which is out of flight superior to DTJri'ey's. 
It begins, 

«' When sable night each drooping plant restoring." . 

The air, if I understand the expression of 
it properly, is the very native language of 
simplicity, tenderness and love. I have a- 
gain gone over my song to the tune as fol- 
lows.* 

Now for my English song to Nancy's to the 
greenwood, fyc. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

See Poems, p. 99. 

There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's De- 
light, to which I wrote a song that you will 
find in Johnson. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon ; this air, I 
think, might find a place among your hundred, 
as Lear says of his knights. Do you know 
the history of the air 1 It is curious enough. 
A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
writer in your good town, a gentleman whom 
possibly you know, was in company with our 
friend Clarke ; and talking of Scotish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able 
to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by 
way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys 
of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of 
rhythm ; and he would infallibly compose a 
Scots air. Certain it is, that, in a few days, 
Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
which Mr. Clarke with some touches and cor- 
rections, fashioned into the tune in question. 
Ritson x you know, has the same story of the 
Black Keys ; but this account which I have 
just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of se- 
veral years ago. Now to show you how diffi- 
cult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have 
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an 
Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman 
who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among 
the old women ; while, on the other hand, a 
Countess informed me, that the first person 
who introduced the air into this country, was 
a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took 
down the notes from an itinerant piper in the 
Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, 
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
sung through the streets of Dumfries with my 

* T.2e the song in its first and best dress in page 212.— 
Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily throw this into 
an English mould ; but, to my taste, in. the simple and 
the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old 
Scotish has an inimitable effect." JJ 



name at the head of them as the author, though 
it was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Craigie-burn- 
wood ; and I shall take care to furnish you 
with a new chorus. In fact the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to 
the air. If 1 can catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a 
new Craigie-burn-wood altogether. My heart 
is much in the theme. 

1 am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in 
a moment when I had forgotten whether I 
was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy 
of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to 
write you this : but an ungracious request is 
doubly so by a tedious apology. To make 
you some amends, as soon as I have extracted 
the necessary information out of them, I will 
return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little proud that I have it 
in my power to please her so much. Lucky it 
is for your patience that my paper is done, for 
when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not 
when to give over. 



No. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Uth November, 1794. 

MY GOOD SIR, 

Since receiving your last, I have had 
another interview with Mr. Clarke, and along 
consultation. He thinks the Caledonian Hunt 
is more Bacchanalian than amorous in its na- 
ture, and recommends it to you to match the 
air accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to 
you how peculiarly well the Scotish airs are 
adapted for verses in the form of a dialogue ? 
The first part of the air is generally low, and 
suited for a man's voice, and the second part 
in many instances cannot be sung, at concert 
pitch, but by a female voice. A song thus 
performed makes an agreeable variety, but 
few of ours are written in this form: I wish 
you would think of it in some of those that re- 
main. The only one of the kind you have sent 
me is admirable, and will be a universal fa- 
vourite. 

Your verses for Bothiemurchie are so sweet- 
ly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for 



LETTERS. 

Dtel tak the wars, so passionately tender, that 
I have sung myself into raptures with them. 
Your song for My lodging is on the cold ground, 
is likewise a diamond of the first water ; and 
I am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some 
of your Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, 
from your partiality for this colour ; else we 
differ about it ; for I should scarcely conceive 
a woman to be a beauty, on reading that she 
had lint-white locks. 



215 



• r Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I 
think excellent, but it is much too serious to 
come after Nancy ; at least it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air with 
merry Scotish and melancholy English verses ! 
The more that the two sets of verses resemble 
each other in their general character, the bet- 
ter. Those you have manufactured for Dainty 
Davie will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes ! I care 
not how long they be, for it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling 
me when you wish to present any of your 
friends with the songs : the next carrier will 
bring you three copies, and you are as wel- 
come to twenty as to a pinch of snuff. 



No. LXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

19th November, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
respondent I am : though indeed you may 
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as 
you have so flattered me on my horsemanship 
with my favourite hobby, and praised the 
grace of his ambling so much, that I am 
scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this 
morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my 
walk before breakfast, I finished my duet 
which you were pleased to praise so much. 
Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will 
not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not an hour old. 



Philly, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 
See Poems, p. 99. 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

1 am much pleased with your idea of sing- 
ing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret 



that you did not hint It to me sooner. Jn 
those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. 
I remember your objections to the name 
Philly ; but it is the common abbreviation of 
Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, 
has to my ear a vulgarity about it, which un- 
fits it for any thing except burlesque. The 
legion of Scotish poetasters of the day, whom 
your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with 
me, as my coevals, have alwavs mistaken 
vulgarity for simplicity : whereas, simplicity 
is as much eloigne"e from vulgarity on the one 
hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
ceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Craigic-bum- 
wood, that a chorus would in some degree 
spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have none 
in my projected song to it. It is not however 
a case in point with Rothiemurchie ; there, as 
in Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch, a chorus goes, to 
my taste, well enough. As to the chorus 
going first, that is the case with Roy's Wife, 
as well as Rothiemurchie. In fact, in the first 
part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar 
and irregular, -and on that irregularity de- 
pends so much of their beauty, that we must 
e'en take them with all their wildness, and 
humour the verses accordingly. Leaving out 
the starting note, in both tunes has, I think, 
an effect that no regularity could counter- 
balance the want of. 
Try 

O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

and compare with, 

Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you? In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the 
wild originality of the air ; whereas in the first 
insipid method, it is like the grating screw of 
the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. 
This is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon 
of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming that it 
would make any subject in a song go down , 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. 
Scotish Bacchanalians we certainly want, 
though the few we have are excellent. For 
instance, Todlin Hame, is, for wit and humour, 
an unparalleled composition ; and Andrew and 
his cutty gun, is the work of a master. By 
the way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed our fine Scotish lyrics, 



216 
should be unknown ? It ha3 given me many a 
heart-ache. A-propos to Bacchanalian songs 
in Scotish ; I composed one yesterday, for an 
air 1 like much— Lumps o' Pudding* 



Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
See Poems, p. 97. 

If you do not relish this air, 1 will send it to 
Johnson. 



Since yesterday's penmanship, I have 
framed a couple of English stanzas, by way 
of an English song to Roy's Wife. You will 
allow me that in this instance, my English 
corresponds in sentiment with the Scotish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY 
KATY? 

CHORUS. 

Cavst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus my Katy ?* 

See Poems, p. 100. 

* To this address, in the character of a forsaken lover, a 
reply was found on the part of the lady, among the MSS. 
of our bard, evidently in a female hand-writing ; which is 
doubtless that referred to in p. 201, letter No. XL'tl, Note. 
The temptation to give it to the public is irresistible ; and 
if, in so doing, offence should be given to the fair author* 
ess, the beauty of her verses must plead our excuse. 

Tune— * Roy's Wife.' 
CHORUS. 
Stay, my Willie— yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 
For, ah ! thou Icnow'st na every pang 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 
And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 

And when this heart proves fause to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Stay my Willie, fyc. 

But to think I was betray'd, 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! 
To take the flow'ret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' serpent under ! 
Stay my Willie, 8jc. 

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, 
Celestial pleasures, mighfl choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay my Willie, fyc. 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this oc- 
casion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the 
dialects of their respective countries. The Scotish bard 
makes his address in pure English : the reply on the part 
of the lady, in the Scotish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by 
» young and beautiful Englishwoman. E. 



LETTERS. 

YYell ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far 
amiss. You see I am determined to have my 
quantum of applause from somebody. 



Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends 
on earth,) that I much suspect he has, in his 
plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and 
horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a 
very rude instrument. It is composed of three 
parts ; the stock, which is the hinder thigh- 
bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton 
ham ; the horn, which is a common Highland 
cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until 
the aperture be large enough to admit the 
stock to be pushed up through the horn until 
it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; 
and lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and 
notched like that which you see every shep- 
herd boy have, when the corn-stems are green 
and full-grown. The reed is not made fast in 
the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays 
loose in the smaller end of the stock : while 
the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger 
end, is held by the hands in playing. The 
stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper 
side, and one back ventige, like the common 
flute. This of mine was made by a man from 
the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the 
shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly 
bored in the holes, or else we have not the art 
of blowing it rightly ; for we can make little 
of it. If Mr. Allan chooses I will send him a 
sight of mine ; as I look on myself to be a 
kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride in 
Poets is nae sin :" and I will say it, that I 
look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the 
only genuine and real painters of Scotish cos- 
tume in the world. 

No. LXV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

28th Ntvember, 1794, 

I acknowledge, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delec- 
table correspondent I ever met with. To at- 
tempt flattering you, never entered into my 
head ; the truth is, I look back with surprise 
at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at 
lines and couplets of your incomp ar «hle> 
lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had 



IiETTERS 

me right, you would have sent me to the 
devil. On the contrary, however, you have 
all along condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself 
the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget de- 
mands unqualified praise : all the songs are 
charming, but the duet is a chef d' ceuvre. 
Lumps o' Pudding shall certainly make one of 
my family dishes; you have cooked it so 
capitally, that it will please all palates. Do 
give us a few more of this cast when you find 
yourself in good spirits ; these convivial songs 
are more wanted than those of the amorous 
kind, of which we have great choice. Be- 
sides, one does not often meet with a singer 
capable of giving the proper effect to the lat- 
ter, while the former are easily sung, and 
acceptable to every body. I participate in 
your regret that the authors of some of our 
best songs are unknown : it is provoking to 
every admirer of genius. 



1 mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's Return, to be en- 
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
interesting point of time appears to me, when 
she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three 
lines immediately following are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings ; but were 
the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe 
the animation and anxiety of her countenance 
is gone, and he could only represent her faint- 
ing in the soldier's arms. But I submit the 
matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay 
him in considering him worthy of standing in 
a niche by the side of Burns in the Scotish 
Pantheon. He has seen the rude instrument 
you describe, so does not want you to send it ; 
but wishes to know whether you believe it to 
have ever been generally used as a musical 
pipe by .the Scotish shepherds, and when, and 
in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt 
much if it was capable of any thing but rout- 
ing and roaring. A friend of mine says be 
remembers to have heard one in his younger 
days made of wood instead of your bone, and 
that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you r return any books. 



No. LXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart, 



217 
to do any thing to forward, or add to the value 
of your book ; and as I agree with you that 
the Jacobite song in the museum, to There'll 
never he peace till Jamie comes hame, would not 
so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
love-song to that air, I have just framed for 
you the following : 



Now 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

in her green mantle blithe nature ar- 
rays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes, 

See Poems, p. 100. 



How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time, for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger 7 s Return, it must cer- 
tainly be at — " She gaz'd." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense taking possession of her 
countenance, and the gushing fondness with 
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me, as things of which a master will make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, 
vours. 



No. LXVIL 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I fear for my songs ; however a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks, have 
been describing the spring, for instance; and 
as the spring continues the same, there must 
soon be a sameness in the imagery, £cc. of these 
said rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for 
song-writing. The following is on neither 
subject, and consequently is no song ; but 
will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into 
rhyme. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ; 
See Poems, p. 100. 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
1 ook, but merely by way of vive la bagatcllt ; 
Ff 



218 LETTERS. 

for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
the following do for Craigie-burn-wood ?* 



No. LXX. 



Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

See Poems, p. 101. 

Farewell ! God bless you. 



No. LXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ZOth January, 1795. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 thank you heartily for Nannie's awa, as 
well as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very 
comely pair. Your observation on the diffi- 
culty of original writing in a number of efforts, 
in the same style, strikes me very forcibly : 
and it has again and again excited my -wonder 
to find you continually surmounting this diffi- 
culty, in the many delightful songs you have 
sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' 
that, shall undoubtedly, be included in my 
list. 



No. LXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favourite air. 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 

See Poems, p. 101. 

HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain ! 

I do not know whether it will do. 

* Craigie-burn-wood is situated on the banks of the 
river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the vil- 
lage of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters — 
The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcricf, were at one 
time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he 
met the "Lassie wi' the lmt-white locks," and that he 
conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. E 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan, 7th Feb., 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predica- 
ment in which I write to you. In the course 
of my duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late,) 1 came yesternight to this 
unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have 
gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have 
impeded my progress ; I have tried to " gae 
back the gait I cam again/' but the same ob- 
stacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. 
To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a 
scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds 
that would have insulted the dying agonies of 
a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks 
himself, on that very account, exceeding good 
company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, 
either to get drunk, to forget these miseries 
or to hang myself to get rid of them ; like a 
prudent man (a character congenial to my 
every thought, word, and deed,) I, of two 
evils, have chosen the least, and am, very 
drunk, at your service !* 

I wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present I have 
not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town? I 
think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- 
cellent song. I am highly delighted with it ; 
and if you should think it worthy of your at- 
tention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom 
1 would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a 
good night. 



No. LXXI. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

2Mh February, 1795. 
I have to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night; 
and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that 
drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." 
You have displayed great address in the 
above song. Her answer is excellent, and at 



* The bard must liave been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet 
Ecclefechan at this rate. E. 



LETTERS- 



219 



the same time, takes away the indelicacy that 
otherwise would have attached to his en- 
treaties. 1 like the song as it now stands, 
very much. v 

» 
I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile 
the tedious forenoons by song -making. It 
will give me pleasure to receive the verses you 
intend for O wot ye wha's in yon town ? 



No. LXXII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray. 

See Poems, p. 101. 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
you like this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

CHORUS. 
Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

See Poems, p. 102. 

How do you like the foregoing? The Irish 
air, Htimours of Glen, is a great favourite of 
mine ; and as, except the silly stuff in the 
Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses 
for it, I have written for it as follows : 

SONG. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
perfume ; 

See Poems, p. 102. 



SONG. 
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that war. ne'er my undoing 
See Poems, p. 102. 

Let me hear from you. 



LXXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that I have 



any intention to enhance the value of my gift, 
when I say, iu justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and execution of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night is, in my opinion, 
one of the happiest productions of Allan's pen- 
cil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you 
are not quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I 
think strikingly like you, as far as I can re^ 
member your phiz. This should make the 
piece interesting to your family every way. — 
Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you out 
among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Address 
to the Wood-Lark, your elegant Panegyric on 
Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chlo- 
ris's illness. Every repeated perusal of these 
gives new delight. The other song to " Lad- 
die, lie near me," though not equal to these, is 
very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

How cruel are the parents, 
Who riches only prize ; 

See Poems, p. 102. 



SONG. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

See Poems, p. 103. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
for poetizing, provided that the strait jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
portion of your applause, it will raise your 
humble servant's frenzy to any height you 
want. I am at this moment " holding high 
converse" with the Muses, and have not a 
word to throw away on such a prosaic dog a* 
you are. 



No. LXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pran 



220 

sent : though I am ashamed of the value of it 
being best owed on a man who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. 
I have shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first rate production. My 
phis is sae ken-speckle, that the very joiner's 
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to 
break up the parcel (I Was out of town that 
day,) knew it at once. — My most grateful com- 
pliments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic 
muse so much with his masterly pencil. One 
strange coincidence is, that the little one 
who is making the felonious attempt on the 
cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an 
ill-deedie, d—n'd, wee, rumble-guirie, urchin of 
mine, whom, from that propensity to witty 
wickedness, and manfu' mischief, which even 
at two days auld, I foresaw would form the 
striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
who is one of the masters of a grammar-school 
in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
in a manner introduced me— I mean a well- 
known military and literary character, Colo- 
nel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 

No. LXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON. TO MR. BURNS. 

Uth May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that you 
are so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's produc- 
tion. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared 
so very early, and suggested whom he should 
be named after, is curious enough. I am ac- 
quainted with that person, who is a prodigy of 
learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell 
me you have not merited the drawing from 
me. I do not think I can ever repay you, or 
sufficiently esteem and respect you for the 
liberal and kind manner in which you have 
entered into the spirit of my undertaking, 



LETTERS. 



which could not have been perfected without 
you. So I beg you would not make a fool of 
me again, by speaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last! Clarke has 
made a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superla- 
tive ballad of William and Margaret, and 
is to give it me to be enrolled among the 
elect. 



No. LXXVIL 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

In Whistle, and Til come to you, my lad, 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear 
Here goes what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 

mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of 
Parnassus ; a dame, whom the Graces have 
attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves have 
armed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the 
heroine of the song, insists on the amend- 
ment: and dispute her commands if you 
dare ! 

SONG. 



O this is no my ain 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

See Poems, p. 103. 

B*o you know that you have roiised the 
torpidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested 
me to write three or four songs for him, which 
he is to set to* music himself. The enclosed 
sheet contains two songs for him, which 
please to present to my valued friend Cun- 
ningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, O 
bonnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases 
me, and as it is extremely probable that 
Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be 
soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, it 
you like the song, it may go as Scotish verses, 
to the air of 1 wish my love was in a mire; and 
poor Erskiue's English lines may follow. 



LETTERS. 

I enclose you, a For a 7 that and a y that, 
which was never in print ; it is a much supe- 
rior song to mine. I hava&een told that it 
was composed by a lady. 



Now spring has clad the grove in green, 
And strewM the lea wi' flowers : 

See Poems, p. 103. 



O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
See Poems., p. 104. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
last edition of my poems, presented to the 
lady, whom, in so many fictitious reveries of 
passion, but with the most ardent sentiments 
of real friendship, I have so often sung under 
the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend, 
Nor thou the gift refuse, 

See Poems, p. 104. 



in my name petition the 
whoever she be, to let the 
altered.* 



221 

charming Jeany 
line remain un- 



Une bagatelle de V amitie. 



COILA. 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



This will be delivered to you by a Dr. 
Brianton, who has read your works, and pants 
for the honour of your acquaintance. I do 
not know the gentleman, but his friend, who 
applied to me for this introduction, being an 
excellent young man, 1 have no doubt he is 
worthy of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with your last packet — full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagina- 
tion is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that 
I am deliglited with all the three songs, as 
well as with your elegant and tender verses 
to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, to the 
prosaic line, Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that 1 do not 
think the latter either reads or sings so well 
as the former. I wish, therefore, you would 



1 should be happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- 
duce a few airs to'be joined to your verses. 
Every body regrets his writing so very little, 
as every body acknowledges his ability to 
write well. Pray was the resolution formed 
coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight 
vow, made over a bowl of punch with the 
bard? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham 
what you have sent him. 

P. S. The lady's For a' that and a' that, is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared 
to yours than I to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, 1 wander here ; 

See Poems, p. 104. 

How do you like the foregoing? I have 
written it within this hour : so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus, but what say you to his 
bottom ? 



No. LXXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love did he deave me ;t 
See Poems, p. 104. 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this song 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that it 
requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreasonable. If 
We mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the 
lines to the tune of Roy's Wife, ante, p. 216. 

f In the original MS. the third line of the fourth verse 
runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess," 
Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the word, 
Dalgarnock m the next verse. Mr. Burns replies as fol- 
lows : 

•« Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of 
passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines of 
this county. Dalgarnock is also the name of a romantic 
spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and 
burial-ground. However, let the first run, He up the lang 
loan," &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that givei 
Ax-ality to our poet's verses. £• 



222 LETTERS 

Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy ? 

See Poems, p. 105. 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
stanza to suit it. 



I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the tooth-ach, so have 
net a word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 



MR-. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



3d June, 1795. 



embellished with a number of etchings by our 
ingenious friend Allan ;— what is your opinion 
of this? 



No. LXXXIII. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



Your English verses to Let me in this ae 
night, are tender and beautiful; and your 
ballad to the " Lothian Lassie," is a master- 
piece for its humour and naiveti. The frag- 
ment for the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited 
to the original measure of the air, and, as it 
plagues you so, the fragment must content it. 
I would rather, as I said before, have had 
Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the 
poet ; but, nevertheless, for what we have re- 
ceived, Lord make us thankful ! 



-»■■>. ^.•vv*-. 



No. LXXXII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

5th Feb. 1796. 

O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? 
Or are ye wanking, I would wit? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is 
awful ! Am I never to hear from you again ? I 
know and I lament how much you have been 
afflicted of late, but I trust that returning 
health and spirits will now enable you to re- 
sume the pen, and delight us with your mus- 
ings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and 
Irish airs that I wish '* married to immortal 
verse." We have several true born Irishmen 
on the Scotish list ; but they are now na- 
turalized, and reckoned our own good sub- 
jects. Indeed we have none better. I be- 
lieve 1 before told you that I have been much 
urged by some friends to publish a collection 
of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
some elegant present, to Mrs. B , and for 

my remaining vol. of P. Pindar. — Peter is a 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am much pleased with your idea of publish- 
ing a collection of our songs in octavo, with 
etchings, I am extremely willing to lend 
every assistance in my power. The Irish airs 
I shall cheerfully undertake the task of find- 
ing verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three 
with words, and the other day I strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian mel- 
ody, which 1 admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WP A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 
arms ; 

See Poems, p. 105. 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In my by-past songs 1 
dislike one thing ; the name of Chloris — I 
meant it as the fictitious name of a certain 
lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a 
Scotish pastoral ballad.— Of this, and some 
things else, in my next : I have more amend- 
ments to propose. — What you once mentioned 
of " flaxen locks" is just ; they cannot enter 
into an elegant description of beauty. Of this 
also again — God bless you !* 



No. LXXXIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Your Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a most 
excellent song, and with you the subject is 
something new indeed. It is the first time I 

* Our Poet never explained what name he would have 
substituted for Chloris. 

Note by Mr. Thomson. 



have seen you debasing the god of soft desire, 
into an amateur of acres and guineas — 

I am happy to find you approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed 
and etched about twenty plates, and I am 
to have my choice of them for that work. 
Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
with which they abound, they exhibit the 
character and costume of the Scotish peas- 
antry with inimitable felicity. In this re- 
spect, he himself says they will far exceed 
the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle 
Shepherd, because in the etching he sees 
clearly what he is doing, but not so with the 
aquatinta, which he could not manage to his 
mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
more characteristic and natural than the Scot- 
ish figures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost 
ever since I wrote you last : I have only known 
existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold and fever, 
have formed to me a terrible combination. 
I close my eyes in misery, and open them with- 
out hope, 1 look on the vernal day, and say, 
with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the' comfortless and wretched given ?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. 
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, 
which for these many years has been my howff, 
and where our friend Clarke and I have had 
many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted 
with Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married 
an 7 a\ is admirable. The grouping is beyond 
all praise. The expression of the figures con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolute- 
ly faultless perfection. I next admire, Turn- 
im-spike. What I like least is Jenny said to 
Jockey. Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance ***** if you take her 
stooping into the account, she is at least two 



LETTERS. 223 

inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn i 
I sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I 
am to think that he has yet a well grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me— but that is a * * * * * sub- 
ject! 



No. LXXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Ath May, 1796. 

I need not tell you, my good Sir, what con- 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much I sympathize in your sufferings. But do 
not I beseech you, give yourself up to des- 
pondency, nor speak the language of despair. 
The vigour of your constitution, I trust, will 
soon set you on your feet again ; and then it is 
to be hoped you will see the wisdom and the 
necessity of taking due care of a life so valu- 
able to your family, to your friends, and to the 
world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and returning 
good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, 
yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



No. LXXXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I once mentioned to you an air which I 
have long admired — Here' s a health to them 
that's awa, hinnie, but I forget if you took any 
notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it 
with verses ; and I beg leave to recommend 
the air to your attention once more. I have 
only begun it. 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear ;* 

See Poems, p. 105. 

* In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas 
only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our poet had 
nsver gone farther. Among his MSS. was, however, found 
the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the 
last finished offspring of his muse. E- 



224 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXXVIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure 
if you choose to write me by him ; and if you 
have a spare half hour to spend with him, I 
shall place your kindness to my account. I 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them : so, 
when you have complete leisure, I will thank 
you for either the originals or copies.* I had 
rather be the author of five well- written songs, 
than of ten otherwise. 1 have great hopes that 
the genial influence of the approaching sum- 
mer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
boast of returning health. 1 have now reason 
to believe that my complaint is a flying gout : 
— a sad business. 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago, I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, 12th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, cursed 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel * * * * of a haber- 
dasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it 
into his head that I am dying, has commenced 
a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. 
Do. for God's sake, send me that sum, and 
that by return of post. Forgive me this ear- 
nestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me 
half distracted. I do not ask all this gratui- 
tously ; for, upon returning health, I hereby 
promise and engage to furnish you with five 
pounds' worth of the neatest song genius you 
have seen. I tried my hand on Rothiemurchie 
this morning. The measure is so difficult, that 
it is impossible to infuse much genius into the 
lines ; they are on the other side. Forgive, 
forgive me ! 

• It i» needless to say, that this revisal Burns did not 
live to perform. E. 



SONG. 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,* 

See Poems, p. 106. 



No. XC. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Uth July, 1796. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Ever since I received your melancholy 
letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating 
in what manner I could endeavour to allevi- 
ate your sufferings. Again and again 1 thought 
of a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of 
one of your letters on this subject, and the fear 
of offending your independent spirit, checked 
my resolution. I thank you heartily therefore 
for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, 
and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the 
very sum I proposed sending. Would I were 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day 
for your sake! 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of your 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of Edi- 
tor. In the mean time it could be advertised 
to be published by subscription. Do not shun 
this mode of obtaining the value of your la- 
bour : remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, 
and do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. 
You are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear you to impute any thing I 
say to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. 

The verses to Rothiemurchie will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tune 
your lyre. 



* This song, and the letter enclosing it, are written in a 
character that marks the very feeble state of Burns's bodi- 
ly strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could not 
have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where cer- 
tainly he had many firm friends ; nor under any such ne- 
cessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about thi3 
time his reason began to be at times unsettled, and the 
horrors of a jail perpetually haunted his imagination. He 
died on the 21st of this month. E. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER, 

FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
lars of the history of the preceding Poems,* 
on which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded ; and with this view the fol- 
lowing extract is made from a letter of Gilbert 
Burns, the brother of our poet, and his friend 
and confidant from his earliest years. } 



Mossgill, 2d April, 1798- 

1)EAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 14th of March I re- 
ceived in due course, but from the hurry of 
the season have been hitherto hindered from 
answering it. I will now try to give you what 
satisfaction I can, in regard to the particulars 
you mention. I cannot pretend to be very 
accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, 
but none of them, except Winter a Dirge, 
(which was a juvenile production,) The Death 
and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, and some 
of the songs* were composed before the year 
1784. The circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as he has described them. 
He had partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe 
and two lambs from a neighbour, and she 
was tethered in a field adjoining the house at 
Lochlie, He and I were going out, with our 
teams, and our two younger brothers to drive 
for us, at mid-day ; when Hugh Wilson, a 
curious looking awkward boy, clad in plaid- 
ing, came to us with much anxiety in his face, 
with the information that the ewe had entang- 
led herself in the tether, and was lying in the 
ditch. Robert was much tickled with Huoc's 
appearance and postures on the occasion. 
Poor Maillie was set to rights, and when we 
returned from the plough in the evening, he 
repeated to me her Death and Dying Words, 
pretty much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Epistle to Davie. Robert often composed 
without any regular plan. When any thing 
made a strong impression on his mind, so as 
to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give 
way to the impulse, and embody the thought 
in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to 
please him, he would then think of proper 
introductory, connecting, and concluding 
stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was 
often first produced. It was, 1 think, in 

* This refers to the pieces inserted before page 76 of 
the Poems, 



LETTERS* 225 

summer 1784, wnen in the interval of harde* 



labour, he and I were weeding in the garden 
(kail-yard,) that he repeated to me the princi- 
pal part of this epistle. 1 believe the first 
idea of Robert becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was o f 
opinion it would bear being printed, and that 
it would be well received by people of taste ; 
that I thought it at least equal if not superior 
to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles ; and that 
the merit of these, and much other Scotch 
poetry, seemed to consist principally in the 
knack of the expression, but here, there was 
a train of interesting sentiment, and the Scoti- 
cism of the language scarcely seemed affected, 
but appeared to be the natural language of 
the poet; that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the con- 
solations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very 
well pleased with my criticism, and we talked 
of sending it to some magazine, but as this 
plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how 

it would take, the idea was dropped. 

m 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
particular spot,) that the author first repeated 
to me the Address to the Deil. The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him 
by running over in his mind the many lu- 
dicrous accounts and representations we have, 
from various quarters, of this august person- 
age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not 
published in the Kilmarnock edition, was 
produced early in the year 1785. The School- 
master of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the 
scanty subsistence allowed to that useful class 
of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. 
Having accidentally fallen in with some me- 
dical books, and become most hobby-horsical- 
ly attached to the study of medicine, he had 
added the sale of a few medicines to his little 
trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the 
bottom of which, overlooking his own incapa- 
city, he had advertised, that Advice would be 
given in " common disorders at the shop gra- 
tis." Robert was at a mason meeting in Tar- 
bolton, when the Dominie unfortunately madd 
too ostentatious a display of his medical skill. 
As he parted in the evening from this mixture, 
of pedantry and physic, at the place where he 
describes his meeting with Death, one of 
those floating ideas of apparition he mentions 
in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind : 
this set him to work for the rest of the way 
home. These circumstances lie related whetf 
he repeated the versus to me next all. 
G g 



ns I was holding the plough, and he was let- 
ting the water off the field beside me. The 
Epistle to John Lapraik was produced exact- 
ly on the occasion described by the author, 
He says in that poem, On fasten-e'en, we had a 
rockin. I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the country- 
women employed their spare hours in spinning 
on the rack, or distaff. This simple imple- 
ment is a very portable one, and well fitted to 
the social inclination of meeting in a neigh- 
bour's house ; hence the phrase of going a- 
rocking or with the rock. As the connexion 
the phrase had with the implement was for- 
gotten, when the rock gave place to the spin, 
ning- wheel, the phrase came to be used by 
both sexes on social occasions, and men talk 
of going with their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people 
with their rocks, that Lapraik's song begin- 
ning — " When I upon thy bosom lean," was 
sung, and we were informed who was the 
author. Upon this, Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to 
his answer. The verses to the Mouse and 
Mountain Daisy were composed on the occa- 
sions mentioned, and while the author was 
holding the plough ; I could point out the 
particular spot where each was composed. 
Holding the plough was a favourite situation 
with Robert for poetic composition, and some 
of his best verses were produced while he was 
at that exercise. Several of the poems were 
produced for the purpose of bringing forward 
some favourite sentiment of the author. He 
used to remark to me, that he could not well 
conceive a more mortifying picture of human 
life, than a man seeking work. In casting 
about in his mind how this sentiment might 
be brought forward, the elegy Man was made 
to moimi, was composed. Robert had fre- 
quently remarked to me that he thought then? 
was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a 
decent, sober head of a family, introducing 
family worship. To this sentiment of the 
author the world is indebted for the Cotter's 
Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and 
title of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's 
Farmer's Ingle. When Robert had not some 
pleasure in view, in which I was not thought 
fit to participate, we used frequently to walk 
together, when the weather was favourable, 
on the Sunday afternoons (those precious 
h eath in g times to the labouring part of the 
community,) and enjoyed such Sundays as 
would make one regret to see their number 



abridged. It was in one of these walks, that 
I first had the pleasure of hearing the author 
repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. I do not 
recollect to have read or heard any thing by 
which I was more highly electrified. The 
fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my 
soul. I mention this to you, that you may 
see what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. 
I should be glad to know if the enlightened 
mind and refined taste of Mr. Roscoe, who 
has borne such honourable testimony to this 
poem, agrees with me in the selection. Fei- 
gusson, in his Hallow Fair of Edinburgh, I 
believe, likewise furnished a hint of the title 
and plan of the Holy-Fair, The farcical scene 
the poet there describes was often a favourite 
field of his observation, and the most of the 
incidents he mentions had actually passed be- 
fore his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to 
mention that the Lament was composed on 
that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial 
history, which I have mentioned in my letter 
to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of 
his feelings had a little subsided. The Tale 
of Twa Dogs was composed after the resolu- 
tion of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had had a dog, which he called Luat h, that was 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed 
by the wanton cruelty of some person the 
night before my father's death. Robert said 
to me, that he should like to confer such im- 
mortality as he could bestow upon his old 
friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to 
introduce something into the book, under the 
title of Stanzas to the Memory of a quadruped 
Friend ; but this plan was given up for the 
Tale as it now stands. Ccesar was merely the 
creature of the poet's imagination, created for 
the purpose of holding chat with his favourite 
Luath. The first time Robert heard the spin- 
net played upon, was at the house of Dr. 
Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Lou- 
don, now in Glasgow, having given up the 
parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie h^s 
several daughters : one of them played ; the 
father and mother led down the dance; the rest 
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the 
other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful 
family scene for our poet, then lately introdu- 
ced to the world. His mind was roused to a 
poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 44. of 
the Poems, were left in the room where lie 
slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Black- 
lock's letter was addressed, which my broth- 
er, in his letter to Dr. Moore, mentions as the 
reason of his going to Edinburgh. 

When my father feued his little poperty 
near Alloway-Kirk, the wall of the church- 



yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
liberty of pasturing in it. My father, with 
two or three other neighbours, joined in an 
application to the town council of Ayr, who 
were superiors of the adjoining land, for 
liberty to rebuild it, and raised by subscrip- 
tion a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery 
with a wall ; hence he came to consider it as 
his burial-place, and we learned that rever- 
ence for it people generally have for the 
burial-place of their anceTstors. My brother 
was living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, 
on his peregrinations through Scotland, 6taid 
some time at Carsehouse, in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
Riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
The Antiquarian and the poet were " Unco 
pack and thick thegither." Robert requested 
of Captain Grose, when he should come to 
Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of 
Alloway-Rirk, as it was the burial-place of 
his father, and where he himself had a sort 
of claim to lay down his .bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him ; and 
added by way L of encouragement, that it was 
the scene of many a good story of witches and 
apparitions, of which he knew the Captain 
was very fond. The Captain agreed to the 
request, provided the poet would furnish a 
witch-story, to be printed along with it. Tarn 
•' Shanter was produced on this occasion, and 
was first published in Grose's Antiquities of 
Scotland. 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
home very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, 
his seeing a light in Alloway-Kirk, his having 
the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of 
witches, with the devil playing on the bag- 
pipe to them, the scanty covering of one of the 
witches, which made him so far forget him- 
self, as to cry Weel loupen, short sark! — with 
the melancholy catastrophe of the piece is all 
a true story, that can be well attested by 
many respectable old people in that neighbour- 
hood. 

I do not at present recollect any circum- 
stances respecting the other poems, that could 
be at all interesting ; even some of those I have 
mentioned, I am afraid, may appear trifling 
enough, but you will only make use of what 
appears to you of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; the Brigs of 
Ayr; the Calf; (the poet had been with Mr. 
■iavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 



jocularly to him when he was going to 
church, in allusion to the injunction of some 
parents to their children, that he must be sure 
to bring him a note of the sermon at mid-day 
this address to the Reverend Gentleman on 
his text was accordingly produced.) The 
Ordination; The Address to the Unco Guid ; 
Tarn Samson's Elegy: A Winter Night; 
Stanzas on the same Occasion as the preceding 
Prayer; Verses left at a Reverend Friend's 
House ; The First Psalm ; Prayer under the Pres- 
sure of violent Anguish ; the First Six Verses of 
the Ninetieth Psalm ; Verses to Miss Logan, with 
Beattie's Poems; To a Haggis; Address to 
Edinburgh ; John Barleycorn ; When Guilford 
Guid ; Behind yon Hills where Stinchar flows ; 
Green grow the Rashes ; Again rejoicing Nature 
sees; The gloomy Night ; No Churchman am I. 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his first awe-struck approach 
to the bar of public judgment. 

[ Here followed the Preface as given in the first 
page of the Poems, ] 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble Servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 
DR. CURRIE, Liverpool. 



To this history of the poems which are con- 
tained in this volume, it may be added, that 
our author appears to have made little alteration 
in them after their original composition, except 
in some few instances where considerable ad- 
ditions have been introduced. After he had 
attracted the notice of the public by his first 
edition, various criticisms were offered him on 
the peculiarities of his style, as well as of his 
sentiments ; and some of these, which remain 
among his manuscripts, are by persons of great 
taste and judgment. Some few of these criti- 
cisms he adopted, but the far greater part he 
rejected; and, though something has by this 
means been lost in point of delicacy and cor- 
rectness, yet a deeper impression is left of the 
strength and originality of his genius. The 
firmness of our poet's character, arising from 
a just confidence in his own powers, may, in 
part, explain his tenaciousness of his peculiar 
expressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- 
counted for also, by the circumstances under 
which the poems were composed. Burns did 
not, like men of genius born under happier 
auspices, retire, in the moment of inspiration, 
to the silence and sjlitude of his study, and 
commit his verses to paper as they arranged 



228 

themselves in his mind. Fortune did not af- 
ford him this indulgence. It was during the 
toils of daily labour that his fancy exerted it- 
self; the muse, as he himself informs us, found 
him at the plough. In this situation, it was 
necessary to fix his verses on his memory, and 
it was often many days, nay weeks, after a 
poem was finished, before it was written down. 
During all this time, by frequent repetition, 
the association between the thought and the 
expression was confirmed, and the impartiali- 
ty of taste with which written language is re- 
viewed and retouched after it has faded on the 
memory, could not in such instances be exert- 
ed. The original manuscripts of many of his 
poems are preserved, and they differ in no- 
thing material from the last printed edition.— 
Some few variations may be noticed. 

1. In The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer 
after the stanza beginning, 

Erskine, a spunkie, Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts, the 
following : 

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

If Bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand ; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 



Sodger Hugh, is evidently the present Earl 
of Eglintoun, then Colonel Montgomery of 
Coilsfield, and i-epresenting in parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was left out in print- 
ing does not appear. The noble earl will not 
be sorry to see this notice of him, familiar 
though it be, by a bard whose genius he ad- 
mired, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the second 
stanza ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin Adam's days was green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin, sweet, yo.ung, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

3. In The Elegy on poor Maillie, the stanza 
beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows : 

She was nac get o' runted rams, 

YVi* woo' l}ke goats, and legs like trams ; 



LETTERS. 



Sine was the flower o* FairlCe lamba, 

A famous bleed ; 
Now Robfn, greetin, chows the hams 

O' Maillie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should 
lose the honour once intended them. 



4. But the chief variations are found in the 
poems introduced for the first time, in the edi- 
tion in two volumes, small octavo, published 
in 1792. Of the poem written in Friar's-Carse 
Hermitage, there are several editions, and one 
of these has nothing in common with the 
printed poem but the first four lines. The 
poem that is published, which was his second 
effort on the subject, received considerable al- 
terations in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 

in manuscript the following are inserted : 

Say, the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their state, 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Wert thou cottager or king? 
Prince or peasant ?— no such thing. 

5. The Epistle to R. G. Esq. of F. that is, to 
R. Graham, Esq. of Fintra, also underwent 
considerable alterations, as may be collected 
from the General Correspondence. The style 
of poetry was new to our poet, and, though he 
was fitted to excel in it, it cost him more trouble 
than his Scotish poetry. On the contrary, 
Tarn o' Shanter seems to have issued perfect 
from the author's brain. The only considera- 
ble alteration made on reflection, is the omis- 
sion of four lines, which had been inserted af- 
ter the poem was finished, at the end of the 
dreadful catalogue of the articles found on 
the " haly table," and which appeared in the 
first edition of the poem, printed separately. — 
They came after the line, 

Which even to name would be unlatvfu', 

and are as follows, 

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other ob- 
jections, interrupt and destroy the emotions of 
terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of the 



LETTERS 



printed collection, by the advice of Mr. Fraser 
Tytler; to which Burns seems to have paid 
much deference.* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thomson, be- 
gan in the first manuscript copy in the follow- 
ing manner: 

While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet ; 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet ; 
While Summer, with a matron's grace, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And, oft delighted, loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad, 
Surveys with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &c. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it may 
be questioned whether the poetry is much im- 
proved; the poet however has found means 
to introduce the shades of Dryburgh, the resi- 
dence of the Earl of Buchan, at whose request 
these verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, but 
what are already offered will satisfy curiosity, 
and there is nothing of any importance that 
could be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Burns, ivhich contains some hints relative to 
the origin of his celebrated tale of " Tarn o' 
Shunter" the Publishers trust, will be found 
interesting- to every reader of his works. There 
appears no reason to doubt of its being genuine, 
though it has not been inserted in his correspon- 
dence published by Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ. F. A. S.f 

Among the many witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remem- 
ber only two or three. 

* These four lines have been inadvertently replaced in 
the copy of Tarn o' Shanter, published in the first volume 
of the " Poetry, Original and Selected," of Brash and 
Reid, of Glasgow ; and to this circumstance is owing their 
being noticed here. As our poet deliberately rejected 
them, it is hoped that no future printer will insert them. 

f This Letter was first published in the Censura Liter, 
aria, 1786, and was communicated to the Editor of that 
work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, accompanied with the 
following remark. 

'« In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the Anti- 



229 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in 
short on such a night as the devil would chuse 
to take the air in ; a farmer or farmer's ser- 
vant was plodding and plashing homeward 
with his plough-irons on his shoulder, having 
been getting some repairs on them at a neigh- 
bouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of 
Alloway, and being rather on the anxious 
look out in approaching a place so well 
known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and 
the devil's friends and emissaries, he was 
struck aghast by discovering through the hor- 
rors of the storm and stormy night, a light, 
which on his nearer approach plainly showed 
itself to proceed from the haunted edifice. 
Whether he had been fortified from above on 
his devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspect the immediate pres- 
ence of Satan, or whether, according to an- 
other custom, he had got courageously drunk 
at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
but so it wa3 that he ventured to go up to, nay 
into the very kirk. As good luck would have 
it his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and 
he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron 
depending from the roof, over the fire, sim- 
mering some heads of unchristened children, 
limbs of executed malefactors, &c. for the 
business of the night. — It was in for a penny, 
in for a pound, with the honest ploughman : 
so without ceremony he unhooked the caldron 
from off the fire, and pouring out the dam- 
nable ingredients, inverted it oniiis head, and 
carried it fairly home, where it remained long 
in the family, a living evidence of the truth of 
the story. 

Another story which I can prove to be 

equally authentic, was as follows : 



On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose 
way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk- 
yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the 
old bridge, which is about two or three hun- 
dred yards farther on than the said gate, had 



quary Grose, which Ijpurchased a few years since, I foun 1 
the following letter written to him by Burns, when thJ 
former was collecting the Antiquities of Scotland : When 
I premise it was on the second tradition that he afterwards 
formed the inimitable tale of' Tarn o' Shanter,' I cannot 
doubt of its being read with great interest. It were 'burn- 
ing day light' to point out to a reader (and who is not a 
reader of Burns ?) the thoughts he afterwards transplanted 
into the rhythmical narrative." O. G. 



been detained by his business, till by the time the last hour of the noble creature's life 
he reached AUoway it was the wizard hour, 
between night and morning. 



Though he was terrified with a blaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known 
fact that to turn back on these occasions is 
running by far the greatest risk of mischief, 
he prudently advanced on his road. When he 
had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was 
surprised and entertained, through the ribs 
and arches of an old Gothic window, which 
still faces the highway, to see a dance of 
witches merrily footing it round their old 
sooty blackguard master, who was keeping 
them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. 
The farmer stopping his horse to observe'them 
a little, could plainly descry the faces of many 
old women of his acquaintance and neigh- 
bourhood. How the gentleman was dressed, 
tradition does not say ; but the ladies were 
all in their smocks : and one of them happen- 
ing unluckily to have a smock which was 
considerably too short to answer all the pur- 
poses of that piece of dress, our farmer was 
so tickled, that he involuntarily burst out, 
with a loud laugh, «' Weel luppen, Maggy wi' 
the short sark!" and recollecting himself, 
instantly spurred his horse to the top of his 
speed. I need not mention the universally 
known fact, that no diabolical power can 
pursue you beyond the middle of a running 
stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer 
that the river Doon was so 'near, for notwith- 
standing the speed of his horse, which was a 
good one, against he reached the middle of the 
arch of the bridge, and consequently the 
middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful 
hags, were so close at his heels, that one of 
them actually sprung to seize him ; but it was 
too late, nothing was on her side of the stream 
but the horse's tail, which immediately gave 
way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a 
stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was be- 
yond her reach. However, the unsightly, tail- 
less condition of the vigorous steed was, to 



awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to 
stay too late in Ayr markets. 



The last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well identified, as the 
two former, with regard to the scene ; but as 
the best authorities give it for Alloway, I 
shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood 
of Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, 
and was returning home. As he passed the 
kirk, in the adjoining field, he fell in with a 
crew of men and women who were busy pull- 
ing stems of the plant Ragwort. He observed 
that as each person pulled a Ragwort, he or 
she got astride of it, and called out, " up 
horsie !" on which the Ragwort flew off like 
Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The 
foolish boy likewise pulled his Ragwort, and 
cried with the rest " up horsie !'" and, strange 
to tell, away he flew with the company. The 
first stage at which the cavalcade stopped was 
a merchant's wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, 
without saying by your leave, they quaffed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, until 
the morning, foe to the imps and works of 
darkness, threatened to throw light on the 
matter, and frightened them from their carou- 
sals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly 
got himself drunk ; and when the rest took 
horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day 
by some of the people belonging to the mer- 
chant. Somebody that understood Scotch, 
asking him what he was, he said he was such- 
a-one's herd in Alloway, and by some means 
or other getting home again, he lived long to 
tell the world the wonderous tale. 

1 am, &c. &c, 



END OF THE LETTERS. 



APPENDIX. 



No. I.— Note A . See Life, p. 2. 

The importance of the national establishment 
of parish-schools in Scotland will justify a 
short account of the legislative provisions 
respecting it, especially as the subject has 
escaped the notice of all the historians. 

By an act of the king (James Vith) and 
privy council of the 10th of December, 1616, 
it was recommended to his bishops to deale 
and travel with the heritors (land proprietors,) 
and the inhabitants of the respective parishes 
in their respective diocesses, towards the fix- 
ing upon " some certain, solid, and sure 
course" for settling and entertaining a school 
in eaeh parish. This was ratified by a statute 
of Charles I. (the act 1633, chap. 5.) which 
empowered the bishop, with the consent -of 
the heritors of a parish, or of a majority of 
the inhabitants, if the heritors refused to at- 
tend the meeting, to assess every plough of 
land (that is, every farm, in proportion to the 
number of ploughs upon it) with a certain sum 
for establishing a school. This was an in- 
effectual provision, as depending on the con- 
sent and pleasure of the heritors and inhabi- 
tants. Therefore a new order of things was 
introduced by Stat. 1646, chap. 17, which 
obliges the heritors and minister of each par- 
ish to meet and assess the several heritors 
with the requisite sum for building a school- 
house, and to elect a schoolmaster, and mo- 
dify a salary for him in all time to come. 
The salary is ordered not to be under one hun- 
dred, nor above two hundred merks, that is, in 
our present sterling money, not under £5 lis. 
l£d. nor above £11 2s. 3d. and the assessment 
is to be laid on the land in the same propor- 
tion as it is rated for the support of the clergy, 
and as it regulates the payment of the land- 
tax. But in case the heritors of any parish, 
or the majority of them, should fail to dis- 
charge this duty, then the persons forming 
what is called the Committee of Supply of the 
county (consisting of the principal land- 
holders,) or any five of them, are authorized 
by the statute to impose the assessment in- 
stead of them, on the representation of the 



/presbytery in which the parish is situated 
To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the 
right of election by the heritors, by a statute 
passed in 1693, chap. £2, is made subject to 
the review and control of the presbytery of 
the district, who have the examination of the 
person proposed committed to them, both as 
to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to his 
proper deportment in the office when settled 
in it. The election of the heritors is therefore 
only a presentment of a person for the appro- 
bation of the presbytery ; who, if they find 
him unfit, may declare his incapacity, and 



thus oblige them to elect anew, 
stated on unquestionable authority.' 



So far is 



The legal salary of the schoolmaster was 
not inconsiderable at the time it was fixed ; 
but by the decrease in the value of money, it 
is now certainly inadequate to its object ; and 
it is painful to observe, that the landholders 
of Scotland resisted the humble application 
of the schoolmasters to the legislature for its 
increase; a few years ago. The number of 
parishes in Scotland is 877 ; and if we allow 
the salary of a schoolmaster in each to be on 
an average, seven pounds sterling, the amount 
of the legal provision will be £6, 139 sterling. 
If we suppose the wages paid by the scholars 
to amount to twice this sum, which is proba- 
bly beyond the truth, the total of the expenses 
among 1, 526, 492, persons (the whole popu- 
lation of Scotland,) of this most important es- 
tablishment, will be £18, 417. But on this, as 
well as on other subjects respecting Scotland, 
accurate information may soon be expected 
from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statis- 
tics, which will complete the immortal monu- 
ment he has reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the in- 
struction of the poor, was soon felt; and by 
an act of the British parliament, 4 Geo. I. 
chap. 6. it is enacted, ** that of the moneys 
arising from the sale of the Scotish estates 
forfeited in the rebellion of 1715, £2,000 ster- 
ling shall be converted into a capital stock, 

* The authority of A. Frazer Tytler, and David Hume, 
Esqrs- 



232 



APPENDIX, NO, 1. 



the interest of which shall be laid out in 
erecting and maintaining schools in the High- 
lands. The Society for propagating Christian 
Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have ap- 
plied a large part of their fund for the same 
purpose. By their report, 1st May, 1795, the 
annual sum employed by them, in supporting 
their schools in the Highlands and Islands, 
was £3,913 19s. 10d., in which are taught the 
English language, reading and writing, and 
the principles of religion. The schools of the 
society are additional to the legal schools, 
which from the great extent of many of the 
Highland parishes, were found insufficient. 
Besides these established schools, the lower 
classes of people in Scotland, where the 
parishes are large, often combine together, 
and establish private schqols of their own, at 
one of which it was that Burns received the 
principal part of his education. So convinced 
indeed are the poor people of Scotland, by ex- 
perience, of the benefit of instruction, to their 
children, that, though they may often find it 
difficult to feed and clothe them, some kind 
of school-instruction they almost always pro-r 
cure them. 

The influence of the school- establishment of 
Scotland on the peasantry of that country, 
seems to have decided by experience a ques- 
tion of legislation of the utmost importance — 
whether a system of national instruction for 
the poor be favourable to morals and good 
government. In the year 1698, Fletcher of 
Salton declared as follows : " There are at 
this day in Scotland, two hundred thousand 
people begging from door to door. And 
though the number of them be perhaps double 
to what it was formerly, by reason of this 
present great distress (a famine then pre- 
vailed,) yet in all times there have been about 
one hundred thousand of those vagabonds, 
who have lived without any regard or sub- 
jection either to the laws of the land, or even 
those of God and Nature ; fathers incestuously 
accompanying with their own daughters, the 
son with the mother, and the brother with the 
sister." He goes on to say, that no magis- 
trate ever could discover that they had ever 
been baptized, or in what way one in a hun- 
dred went out of the world. He accuses them 
as frequently guilty of robbery, and sometimes 
of murder : " In years of plenty," says he, 
•' many thousands of them meet together in 
the mountains, where they feast and riot for 
many days ; and at country weddings, mar- 
kets, burials, and other public occasions, they 
are to be seen, both men and women, per- 
petually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, and 
fighting together."* This high-minded states- 

* Political Works of Andrew Mctclier, octavo, Lon- 
<tyn, 1767, l>. H4. 



man, of whom it is said by a contempt .y 
'* that he would lose his life readily to save 
his country, and would not do a base thing to 
serve it," thought the evil so great that he 
proposed as a remedy, the revival of domestic 
slavery, according to the practice of his adored 
republics in the classic ages ! Abetter remedy 
has been found, which in the silent lapse of a 
century has proved effectual. The statute of 
1696, the noble legacy of the Scotish Parlia- 
ment to their country, began soon after this 
to operate ; and happily, as the minds of the 
poor received instruction, the Union opened 
new chaunels of industry, and new fields of 
action to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps no coun- 
try in Europe, in which, in proportion to its 
population, so small a number of crimes fall 
under the chastisement of the criminal law, 
as Scotland. We have the best authority for 
asserting, that on an average of thirty years, 
preceding the year 1797, the executions in 
that division of the island did not amount to 
six annually ; and one quarter-sessions for 
the town of Manchester only, has sent, ac- 
cording to Mr. Hume, more felons to the plan- 
tations, than all the judges of Scotland usually 
do in the space of a year.* It might appear 
invidious to attempt a calculation of the many 
thousand individuals in Manchester and its 
vicinity who can neither read nor write. A 
majority of those who can suffer the punish- 
ment of death for their crimes in every part of 
England are, it is believed, in this miserable 
state of ignorance. 



There is now a legal provision for parochial 
schools, or rather for a school in each of the 
different townships into which the country is 
divided, in several of the northern states of 
North America. They are, however, of re- 
cent origin there, excepting in New England, 
where they were established in the last cen- 
tury, probably about the same time as in Scot- 
land, and by the same religious sect. In the 
Protestant Cantons of Switzerland, the peas- 
antry have the advantage of similar schools, 
though established and endowed in a different 
manner. This is also the case in certain dis- 
tricts in England, particularly, in the northern 
parts of Yorkshire and of Lancashire, and 
in the counties of Westmoreland and Cum- 
berland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of the 
poor, was passed by the Parliament of Ire- 
land ; but the fund was diverted from its pur- 

* Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, in- 
troduction, p. GO. 



APPENDIX, NO. 1. 



p , and the measure was entirely frustrated. 
Proh Pudor I 

The similarity of character between the 
Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch 
and the people of New England, can scarcely 
be overlooked. That it arises in a greatmeas- 
ure from the similarity of their institutions for 
instruction, cannot be questioned. It is no 
doubt increased by physical causes. With a 
superior degree of instruction, each of these 
nations possesses a country that may be said 
to be sterile, in the neighbourhood of countries 
comparatively rich. Hence emigrations and 
the other effects on conduct and character 
which such circumstances naturally produce. 
This subject is in a high degree curious. The 
points of dissimilarity between these nations 
might be traced to their causes also, and the 
whole investigation would perhaps admit of 
an approach to certainty in our conclusions, 
to which such inquiries seldom lead. How 
much superior in morals, in intellect, and in 
happiness, the peasantry of those parts of 
England are who have opportunities of in- 
struction, to the same class in other situations, 
those who inquire into the subject will speedily 
discover. The peasantry of Westmoreland, 
and of the other districts mentioned above, if 
their physical and moral qualities be taken 
together, are, in the opinion of the Editor, 
superior to the peasantry of any part of the 
island. 

NoteB. See p. 3. 

It has been supposed that Scotland is less 
populous and less improved on account of this 
emigration ; but such conclusions are doubt- 
ful, if not wholly fallacious. The principle of 
population acts in no country to the full ex- 
tent of its power : marriage is every where re- 
tarded beyond the period pointed out by na- 
ture, by the difficulty of supporting a family ; 
and this obstacle is greatest in long-settled 
communities. The emigration of a part of a 
people facilitates the marriage of the rest, by 
producing a relative increase in the means of 
subsistence. The arguments of Adam Smith, 
for a free export of corn, are perhaps applica- 
ble with less exception to the free export of 
people. The more certain the vent, the 
greater the cultivation of the soil. This sub- 
ject has been well investigated by Sir James 
Stewart, whose principles have been expanded 
and farther illustrated in a late truly philoso- 
phical Essay on Population, In fact, Scotland 
has increased in the number of its inhabitants 
in the last forty years, as the Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the 
ratio that some had supposed. The extent of 



253 

the emigration of the Scots may be calcula- 
ted with some degree of confidence from the 
proportionate number of the two sexes in 
Scotland ; a point that may be established 
pretty exactly by an examination of the in- 
valuable Statistics already mentioned. If we 
suppose that there is an equal number of 
male and female natives of Scotland, alive 
somewhere or other, the excess by which the 
females exceed the males in their own coun- 
try, may be considered to be equal to the 
number of Scotchmen living dut-of Scotland. 
But though the males born in Scotland be ad- 
mitted to be as 13 to 12, and though some of 
the females emigrate as well as the males, 
this mode of calculating would probablj 
make the number of expatriated Scotchmen, 
at any one time alive, greater than the truth. 
The unhealthy climates into which they emi- 
grate, the hazardous services in which so 
many of them engage, render the mean life 
of those who leave Scotland (to speak in the 
language of calculators) not perhaps of half 
the value of the mean life of those who re- 
main. 

Note C. See p. 6. 

In the punishment of this offence the Church 
employed formerly the arm of the civil power. 
During the reign of James the Vlth (James 
the First of England,) criminal connexion 
between unmarried persons was made the 
subject of a particular statute ( See Hume's 
Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland, 
Vol. ii. p. 382.) which, from its rigour, was 
never much enforced, and which has lgng fal- 
len into disuse. When in the middle of the 
last century, the Puritans succeeded in the 
overthrow of the monarchy in both divisions 
of the island, fornication was a crime against 
which they directed their utmost zeal. It was 
made punishable with death in the second in- 
stance, (See Blackstone, b. iv. chap. 4. No. II. J 
Happily this sanguinary statute was swept 
away along with the other acts of the Com- 
monwealth, on the restoration of •Charles II. 
to whose temper and manners it must have 
been peculiarly abhorrent. And after the 
Revolution, when several salutary acts pas- 
sed during the suspension of the monarchy, 
were re-enacted by the Scotish Parliament, 
particularly that for the establishment of 
parish-schools, the statute punishing fornica- 
tion with death, was suffered to sleep in the 
grave of the stern fanatics who had given it 
birth. 

Note D. See p. 6. 

The legitimation of children, by subsequent 
marriage became the Roman law under the 
Hh 



234, 
Christian emperors. 



APPENDIX. NO. 2. 



It was the canon law 
of modern Europe, and has been established 
in Scotland from a very remote period. Thus 
a child born a bastard, if his parents after- 
wards marry, enjoys all the privileges of 
seniority over his brothers afterwards born 
ia wedlock. In the Parliament of Merton, in 
the reign of Henry III. the English clergy 
made a vigorous attempt to introduce this 
article into the law of England, and it was on 
this occasion that the Barons made the noted 
answer, since so often appealed to; Quod 
nolunt leges Anglice mutare ; qu<s hue usque 
usitatce sunt approbate. With regard to what 
constitutes a marriage, the law of Scotland, 
as explained, p. 6, differs from the Roman 
law, which required the ceremony to be per- 
formed in facie eccleske. 



No. II. 



Note A. See p. 12. 

It may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our Bard, and it is 
therefore extracted from a kind of common 
place book, which he seems to have begun in 
his twentieth year ; and which he entitled, 
" Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, 
fyc, by Robert Burness, a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keeping 
it ; but was, however, a man of some sense, 
a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good- 
will to every creature, rational or irrational. 
As he was but little indebted to a scholastic 
education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- 
formances must be strongly tinctured with his 
unpolished rustic way of life ; but as, I be- 
lieve, they are really his own, it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, 
anxiety, grief, with the like cares and pas- 
sions, which however diversified by the modes 
and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, 
I believe, in all the species/' 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd, 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind." 

Shenstonc. 



This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed 
this account of himself, and of his intention 
in preparing it, contains several of his earlier 
poems, some as they were printed, and others 
in their embryo state. The song alluded to is 
that beginning, 



O once I lov*d a bonnle lass, 
Ay, and I love her still, 

See Poems, p. 79. 

It must be confessed that this song gives no 
indication of the future genius of Burns ; but 
he himself seems to have been fond of it, pro- 
bably from the recollections it excited. 

Note B. See p. 15. 

At the time that our poet took the resolu- 
tion of becoming wise, he procured a little book 
of blank paper, with the purpose (expressed 
on the first page) of making farming memoran- 
dums upon it. These farming memorandums 
are curious enough ; many of them have been 
written with a pencil, and are now obliterat- 
ed, or at least illegible. A considerable num- 
ber are however legible, and a specimen may 
gratify the reader. It must be premised, that 
the poet kept the book by him several years — 
that he wrote upon it, here and there, with the 
utmost irregularity, and that on the same page 
are notations very distant from each other as 
to time and place. 



EXTEMPORE. April, 1782. 

O why the deuce should 1 repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

See Poems, p. 163. 



ERA GMENT. Tune— « Donald Blue. 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

See Poems, p. IS}. 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
M iuii white the stick and a' that. 

Mem. To get for Mr. Johnson these two 
Songs : — ' Molly, Molly, my dear honey.' — * The 
cock and the hen, the deer in her den,' fyc. 



Ah! Cloris! Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, 
the author. — Nota, he married her— the heiress 
of Pitferran 4 . 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of 
Down the bum Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

My apron Deary ! and Amynta, by Sir G. 
Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton Wag, was made on 
Walkinshaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

J loe na a laddie but ane, Mr. Clunzee. 

The bonnie wee thing— beautiful — Lundie's 
Dvec.m — very beautiful. 



APPENDIX, WO. £, 



235 



He titt't and she till't—SLSsez bien. 

Armstrong's Farewell — fine. 

The author of the Highland Queen was a Mr. 
M'lver, purser of the Solboy. 

Fife an' a' the land about it, R. Fergusson. 

The author of The bush aboon Traquair, was 
a Dr. Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Captain 
John Drummond M'Grigor of Bochaldie. 

Mem. To inquire if Mrs. Cockburn was the 
author of I hae seen the smiling, &c. 



The above may serve as a specimen. All 
the notes on farming are obliterated. 

Note C. See p. 28, 30. 

Rules and Regulations to be observed in the 
Bachelors' Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every 
fourth Monday night, when a question on any 
subject shall be proposed, disputed points of 
religion, only excepted, in the manner here- 
after directed ; which question is to be debat- 
ed in the club, each member taking whatever 
side he thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the president, or, 
he failing, some one of the members, till he 
come, shall take bis seat : then the other mem- 
bers shall seat themselves : those, who are 
for one side of the question, on the president's 
right hand ; and those who are for the other 
side, on his left ; which of them shall have the 
right hand is to be determined by the presi- 
dent. The president and four of the members 
being present, shall have power to transact 
any ordinary part of the society's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president 
shall read the question out of the club's book 
of records, (which book is always to be kept 
by the president,) then the two members near- 
est the president shall cast lots who of them 
shall speak first, and according as the lot shall 
determine, the member nearest the president 
on that side shall deliver his opinion, and the 
member nearest on the other side shall reply** 
to him ; then the second member of the side 
that spoke first ; then the second member of 
the side that spoke second ; and so on to the 
end of the company ; but if there be fewer 
members on the one side than on the other, 
when all the members of the least side have 
spoken according to their places, any of them, 
as they please among themselves, may reply 
to the remaining members of the opposite side ; 
when both sides have spoken, the president 
shall give his opinion, after which they may 



go over it a second or more times, and so con- 
tinue the question. 

4tb. The club shall then proceed to the choice 
of a question for the subject of next night's 
meeting. The president shall first propose 
one, and any other member who chooses may 
propose more questions ; and whatever one of 
them is most agreeable to the majority of me ru- 
bers, shall be the subject of debate next club- 
night. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new pre- 
sident for the next meeting: the president 
shall first name one, then any of the club may 
name another, and whoever of them has the 
majority of votes shall be duly elected ; allow- 
ing the president the first vote, and the casting 
vote upon a par, but none other. Then after a 
general toast to mistresses of the club, they 
shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversation 
carried on during the time of debate, nor shall 
any member interrupt another while he is 
speaking, under the penalty of a reprimand 
from the president for the first fault, doubling 
his share of the reckoning for the second, tre- 
bling it for the third, and so on in proportion 
for every other fault, provided alway, how- 
ever, that any member may speak at any time 
after leave asked, and given by the president. 
All swearing and profane language, and par- 
ticularly all obscene and indecent conversa- 
tion, is strictly prohibited, under the same 
penalty as aforesaid in the first clause of this 
article. 



7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, 
shall mention any of the club's affairs to any 
other person but a brother member, under the 
pain of being excluded ; and particularly if 
any member shall reveal any of the speeches 
or affairs of the club, with a view to ridicule 
or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
shall be for ever excommunicated from the so- 
ciety ; and the rest of the members are desired, 
as much as possible, to avoid, and have no 
communication with him as a friend or com- 
rade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meet- 
ings, without he can give a proper excuse for 
not attending ; and it is desired that everyone 
who cannot attend, will send his excuse with 
some other member : and he who shall be ab- 
sent three meetings without sending such ex- 
cuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, 
when, if he fail to appear, or send an excuse, 
he shall be excluded. 



' 



236 APPENDIX, 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than 
sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to 
the parish of Tarbolton : except a brother- 
member marry, and in that case he may be 
continued, if the majority of the club think 
proper. No person shall be admitted a mem- 
ber of this society, without the unanimous 
consent of the club ; and any member may 
withdraw from the club altogether, by giving 
a notice to the president in writing of his de- 
parture. 

10th. Every man proper for a member of 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean ; and 
must be a professed lover of one or more of 
the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
person, who looks upon himself as superior to 
the rest of the club, and especially no mean- 
spirited, worldly mortal, whose only will is to 
heap up money, shall upon any pretence what- 
ever be admitted. In short, the proper per- 
son for this society is, a cheerful, honest heart- 
ed lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and 
a mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as 
genteelly to make both ends meet— is just as 
happy as this world can make him. 

NoteB. See p. 79. 

A great number of manuscript poems were 
found among the papers of Burns, addressed 
to him by admirers of his genius, from differ- 
ent parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland 
and America. Among these was a poetical 
epistle from Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, of 
superior merit. It is written in the dialect of 
Scotland (of which country Mr. Telford is a 
native,) and in the versification generally em- 
ployed by our poet himself. Its object is to 
recommend to him other subjects of a serious 
nature, similar to that of the Cotter's Saturday 
Night ; and the reader will find that the ad- 
vice is happily enforced by example. It would 
have given the editor pleasure to have inserted 
the whole of this poem, which he hopes will 
one day see the light : he is happy to have ob- 
tained, in the mean time, his friend Mr. Tel- 
ford's permission to insert the following ex- 
tracts: 



Pursue, O Burns ! thy happy style, 
"Those manner-painting strains," that while 
They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days, 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless'd my young ways. 



NO„ 2, 

I see my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
1 see our green hills touch the skies, 

And through ths woods, 
I hear the river's rushing noisa, 

Its roaring floods.* 



No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow, 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

Than still have mine, 
When up this ancient mountf I go, 

With songs of thine. 



O happy Bard ! thy gen'rous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's fame ; 
For this thy charming numbers came— 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing, and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse, 

With holy air ; 
And sing the course the pious choose, 
With all thy care. 



How with religious awe impressed, 
They open lay the guileless breast ; 
And youth and age with fears distress'd, 

All due prepare, 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share. J 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 

Successive crowds the valleys fill ; 

While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles the way, 

And gives a cast to youthful will, 

To suit the day. 



How placed along the sacred board, 
Their hoary pastor's looks adored, — 
His voice with peace and blessing stored, 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford, 

And boundless love. 



* The banks of the Esk, in Dumfries-shire, are here al- 
luded to. 

-f A beautiful little mount, which stands immediately 
before, or rather forms a part of Shrewsbury castle, a 
scat of Sir "William Pulteney, baronet. 

X The Sacrament, generally administered in the country 
parishes of Scotland in the open air. E. 



APPENDIX, NO. 2, 



237 



O'er this, with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
And, whisper'd, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below, 

Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
(By turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path, 
Where nei'bours saw in dusky air,t 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how, 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their gray locks wave, 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear ; 
One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return, 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 
Of him they mourn, 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought, 

The shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lonely height, 

Feels holy joy. 



• A Scotish funeral. E. 
•f-This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskdale, 
and Annandale, that a light precedes in the night every 
funeral, marking the precise path it is to pass. E. 



Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On sabbath morn and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God — 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 
And bless'd abode. 

O tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ, 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy, 

As means' to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write, 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 
Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 
Who o'er the ingle hings his head, 
And begs of nei'bours books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Baith bauld and wise. 



The bonnie lasses, as they spin, 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin, 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 
Through flowery hows; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts win 
With earnest vows. 

Or may be, Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join, 
To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love, 
Their bosoms warm to latest days, 

And ay improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow, 
O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow, 
May rugged rocks still dearer grow ; 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 



23B 

To eternize such themes as these, 
And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please ; 
And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray— 
The noisome vei jnin of a day, 

Thy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a bouDdless sway, 
A lasting reigu. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains, 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Still teach the rising youth thy strains ; 

And anxious say, 
Our blessing with our sons remains. 

And Burns's Lay ! 



APPENDIX, NO, & 



No. III. 



(First inserted in the Second Edition.) 

The editor has particular pleasure in pre- 
senting to the public the following letter, to 
the due understanding of which a few previous 
observations are necessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was naturally 
desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
and brother of the poet, on the manner in 
which he had executed his task, before a 
second edition should be committed to the 
press. He had the satisfaction of receiving 
this opinion, in a letter dated the 24th of 
August, approving of the Life in very obliging 
terms, and offering one or two trivial correc- 
tions as to names and dates chiefly, which are 
made in this edition. One or two observa- 
tions were offered of a different kind. In the 
819th page of the first volume, first edition, a 
quotation is made from the pastoral song, 
Ettrick Banks, and an explanation given of 
the phrase " mony feck," which occurs in this 
quotation. Supposing the sense to be complete 
after " mony," the editor had considered 
" feck" a rustic oath which confirmed the 
assertion. The words were therefore separated 
by a comma. Mr. Burns considered this an 
error. " Feck," he presumes, is the Scotish 
word for quantity, and " mony feck" to mean 
simply, very many. The editor, in yielding to 
this authority, expressed some hesitation, 
and hinted that the phrase " mony feck" 
was, in Burns's sense, a pleonasm or barbar- 



ism which deformed this beautiful song.* His 
reply to this observation makes the first clause 
of the following letter. 

In the same communication he informed me, 
that the Mirror and the Lounger were pro- 
posed by him to the Conversation Club of 
Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of giv- 
ing me his sentiments on the remarks I had 
made respecting the fitness of s.uch works for 
such societies. The observations of such a 
man on such a subject, the Editor conceived, 
would be received with particular interest by 
the public ; and, having pressed earnestly for 
them, they will be found in the following 
letter. Of the value of this communication, 
delicacy towards his very respectable corres- 
pondent prevents him from expressing his 
opinion. The original letter is in the hands 
of Messrs. Caddell and Davies. 

Dinning, Dumfries-shire, 2ith Oct. 1800. 

DEAR SIR, 

Yours of the 17th inst. came to my hand 
yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to 
write you in return : but when I shall be able 
to finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot 
tell. I am sorry your conviction is not com- 
plete respecting/ec/c. There is no doubt, that 
if you take two English words which appear 
synonymous to mony feck, and judge by the 
rules of English construction, it will appear 
a barbarism. I believe if you take this mode 
of translating from any language, the eflect 
will frequently be the same. But if you lake 
the expression mony feck to have, as I have 
stated it, the same meaning with the English 
expression very many (and such license every 
translator must be allowed, especially when 
he translates from a simple dialect which has 
never been subjected to rule, and where the 
precise meaning of words is, of consequence, 
not minutely attended to,) it will be well 
enough. One thing I am certain of, that ours 
is the sense universally understood in this 
country ; and I believe no Scotsman, who has 
lived contented at home, pleased with the 
simple manners, the simple melodies, and the 
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud 
science never taught to stray," ever discover- 
ed barbarism in the song of Ettrick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of 
my father's house falling down, is simply as 

* The correction made by Gilbert Burns has also been 
suggested by a writer in the Monthly Magazine, under the 
signature of A'bion : who, for taking this trouble, and for 
mentioning the author of the poem of DonochUhead, de- 
sorvoa the Editor's thanks. 



APPENPIX, NO. 3 

follows ;*— When my father built his " clay 
biggin/' he put in two stone-jambs, as they 
are called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney 
in his clay-gable. The consequence was, 
that as the gable subsided, the jambs, remain- 
ing firm, threw it off its centre ; and, one very 
stormy morning, when my brother was nine 
or tea days old, a little before day-light a 
part of the gable fell out, and the rest appear* 
ed so shattered, that my mother, with the 
young poet, had to be carried through the 
storm to a neighbour's house, where they re- 
mained a week till their own dwelling was ad- 
justed. That you may not think too meanly of 
this house, or my father's taste in building, by 
supposing the poet's description in The Vision 
(which is entirely a fancy picture) applicable 
to it, allow me to take notice to you, that 
the house consisted of a kitchen in one end, 
and a room in the other, with a fire place and 
chimney ; that my father had constructed a 
concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small 
closet at the end, of the same materials with 
the house; and, when altogether cast over, 
outside and in, withlime, it had a neat com- 
fortable appearance, such as no family of the 
same rank, in the present improved style of 
living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. 
I wish likewise to take notice, in passing, 
that although the " Cotter/' in the Saturday 
Night, is an exact copy of my father in his 
manners, his family-devotion, and exhorta- 
tions, yet the other parts of the description 
do not apply to our family. None of us were 
ever " at sendee out amang the neebors 
roun." Instead of our depositing our " sair- 
won penny fee" with our parents, my father 
laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid 
economy, that he might be able to keep his 
children at home, thereby having an oppor- 
tunity of watching the progress of our young 
minds and forming in them early habits of 
piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone 
did he engage in farming, the source of all his 
difficulties and distresses. 



When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I re- 
commended to the Mauchline club, and the 
effects of refinement of taste on the labouring 
classes of men, I meant merely, that I wished 
to write you on that subject with the view 
that, in some future communication to the 
public, you might take up the subject more at 
large ; that, by means of your happy manner 
of writing, the attention of people of power 
and influence might be fixed on it. I had lit- 



* The Editor had heard a report that the poet was horn 
in the midst of a storm which blew down a part of the 
house. E. 



239 
tie expectation, however, that I should over- 
come my indolence, and the difficulty of ar- 
ranging my thoughts so far as to put my 
threat in execution ; till some time ago, before 
I had finished my harvest, having a call from 
Mr. Ewart,* with a message from you, pres- 
sing me to the performance of this task, I 
thought myself no longer at liberty to decline 
it, and resolved to set about it with my first 
leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to 
lay before you what has occurred to my mind, 
on a subject where people capable of obser- 
vation and of placing their remarks in a pro- 
per point of view, have seldom an opportunity 
of making their remarks on real life. In do- 
ing this, I may perhaps be led sometimes to 
write more in the manner of a person com- 
municating information to you which you did 
not know before, and at other times more in 
the style of egotism, than I would choose to 
do to any person, in whose candour, and 
even personal good will, I had less confi- 
dence. 



There are two several lines of study that open 
to every man as he enters life : the one, the 
general science of life, of duty, and of happi- 
ness ; the other, the particular arts of his em- 
ployment or situation in society, and the se- 
veral branches of knowledge therewith con- 
nected. This last is certainly indispensable, 
as nothing can be more disgraceful than ig- 
norance in the way of one's own profession ; 
and whatever a man's speculative knowledge 
may be, if he is ill-informed there, he can 
neither be a useful nor a respectable member 
of society. It is nevertheless true, that " the 
proper study of mankind is man :" to consider 
what duties are incumbent on him as a ration- 
al creature, and a member of society ; how he 
may increase or secure his happiness ; and 
how he may prevent or soften the many 
miseries incident to human life. I think the 
pursuit of happiness is too frequently confined 
to the endeavour after the acquisition of 
wealth. I do not wish to be considered as 
an idle declaimer against riches, which, after 
all that can be said against them, will still 
be considered by men of common sense as 
objects of importance ; and _poverty will be 
felt as a sore evil, after all the fine things that 
can be said of its advantages ; on the contra- 
ry 1 am of opinion, that a great proportion of 
the miseries of life arise from the want of 
economy, and a prudent attention to money, 
or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit of it. 
But however valuable riches may be as the 
means of comfort, independence, and the 
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of 

* The .Editor's friend Mr Peter Ewart of Manchester. E. 



240 



opinion, that they may be, and frequently 
are, purchased at too great a cost, and that 
sacrifices are made in the pursuit, which the 
acquisition cannot compensate. I remember 
hearing my worthy teacher; Mr. Murdoch, 
relate an anecdote to my father, which I 
think sets this matter in a strong light, and 
perhaps was the origin, or at least tended to 
promote this way of thinking in me. When 
Mr. Murdoch left Alloway, he went to teach 
and reside in the family of an opulent farmer 
who had a number of sons. A neighbour 
coming on a visit, in the course of conversa- 
tion, asked the father how he meant to dispose 
of his sons. The father replied that he had 
not determined. The visitor said, that were 
he in his place he would give them all good 
education and send them abroad, without 
(perhaps) having a precise idea where. The 
father objected, that many young men lost 
their health in foreign countries, and many 
their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as 
you have a number of sons, it will be strange 
if some one of them' does not live and make a 
fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a 
father, comment on this story ; but though few 
will avow, even to themselves that such views 
govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see 
people shipping off their sons (and who would 
do so by their daughters also, if there were 
any demand for them,) that they may be rich 
or perish ? 



The education of the lower classes is sel- 
dom considered in any other point of view 
than as the means of raising them from that 
station to which they were born, and of ma- 
king a fortune. 1 am ignorant of the mysteries 
of the art of acquiring a fortune without any 
thing to begin with ; and cannot calculate 
with any degree of exactness, the difficulties to 
be surmounted, the mortifications to be suffer- 
ed, and the degradation of character to be sub- 
mitted to, in lending one's self to be the min- 
ister of other people's vices, or in the practice 
of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, 
in the progress ; but even when the wished 
for end is attained, it may be questioned 
whether happiness be much increased by the 
change. When I have seen a fortunate ad- 
venturer of the lower ranks of life returned 
from the East or West Indies, with all the 
hauteur of a vulgar mind accustomed to be 
served by slaves ; assuming a character, 
which, from the early habits of life, he is ill- 
fitted to support : displaying magnificence 
which raises the envy of some, and the con- 
tempt of Others ; claiming an equality with the 



APPENDIX, WO, rf. 

great, which they are unwilling to allow ; inly 
pining at the precedence of the hereditary 
gentry ; maddened by the polished insolence 
of some of the unworthy part of them ; seeking 
pleasure in the society of men who can con- 
descend to flatter him, and listen to his absur- 
dity for the sake of a good dinner and good 
wine : I cannot avoid concluding, that his 
brother, or companion, who, by a diligent ap- 
plication to the labours of agriculture, or some 
useful mechanic employment, and the careful 
husbanding of his gains, has acquired a com- 
petence in his station, is a much happier, and, 
in the eye of a person who can take an enlarg- 
ed view of mankind, a much more respect- 
able man. 



But the votaries of wealth may be consid- 
ered as a great number of candidates striving 
for a few prizes : and whatever addition the 
successful may make to their pleasure or hap- 
piness, the disappointed will always have 
more to suffer, 1 am afraid, than those who 
abide contented in the station to which they 
were born. I wish, therefore, the education 
of the lower classes to be promoted and di- 
rected to their improvement as men, as the 
means of increasing their virtue, and opening 
to them new and dignified sources of pleasure 
and happiness. I have heard some people 
object to the education of the lower classes of 
men, as rendering them less useful, by ab- 
stracting them from their proper business ; 
others, -as tending to make them saucy to their 
superiors, impatient of their condition, and 
turbulent subjects ; while you, with more hu- 
manity, have your fears alarmed, lest the de- 
licacy of mind, induced by that sort of educa- 
tion and reading I recommend, should render 
the evils of their situation insupportable to 
them. I wish to examine the validity of each of 
these objections, beginning with the one you 
have mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, 
although I understand there are people who 
think themselves judges, who do not agree 
with you. The acquisition of knowledge, ex- 
cept what is connected with human life and 
conduct, or the particular business of his em- 
ployment, does not appear to me to be the fit v 
test pursuit for a peasant. I would say with 
the poet, 

** How empty learning, and how vain is art 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the heart." 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in 
the use of the word taste. 1 understand it to 
be the perception and relish of beauty, order, 



APPENDIX, TffO. 3. 



241 



or any other thing, the contemplation of which 
gives pleasure and delight to the mind. I sup- 
pose it is in this sense you wish it to be under- 
stood. If I am right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivate (besides the 
taste for fine writing, which many of the pa- 
pers tend to improve and to gratify,) is what 
is proper, consistent, and becoming in human 
character and conduct, as almost every paper 
relates to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me, 
that I might point out some instances. I re- 
member two ; one the beautiful story of La 
■* Roche, where, beside the pleasure one derives 
from a beautiful simple story, told in M'Ken- 
zie's happiest manner, the mind is led to taste 
with heartfelt rapture, "the consolation to be 
derived in deep affliction, from habitual devo- 
tion and trust in Almighty God. The other, 

the story of General W , where the reader 

is led to have a high relish for that firmness of 
mind which disregards appearances, the com- 
mon forms and vanities of life, for the sake of 
doing justice in a case which was out of the 
reach of human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the mora- 
lity of these books is subordinate to the culti- 
vation of taste ; that taste, that refinement of 
mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are 
i intended to give, are the strongest guard and 
surest foundation of morality and virtue. — 
Other moralists guard, as it were, the overt 
act ; these papers, by exalting duty into senti- 
ment, are calculated to make every deviation 
from rectitude and propriety of conduct, pain- 
ful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you, that the refinement of 
mind which I contend for, increases our sen- 
sibility to the evils of life ! but what station 
of life is without its evils ! There seems to be 
no such thing as perfect happiness in this 
world, and we must balance the pleasure and 
the pain which we derive from taste, before 
we can properly appreciate it in the case 
before us. I apprehend that on a minute 
examination it will appear, that the evils pe- 
culiar to the lower ranks of life, derive their 
power to wound us, more from the sugges- 
tions of false pride, and the " contagion of 
luxury, weak and vile," than the refinement 
of our taste. It was a favourite remark of my 
brother's, that there was no part of the consti- 
tution of our nature, to which we were more 



indebted, than that by which " Custom manes 
things familiar and easy" (a copy Mr. Murdoch 
used to set us to write.) and there is little 
labour which custom will not make easy to a 
man in health, if he is not ashamed of his 
employment, or does not begin to compare 
his situation with those he may see going 
about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- 
spect due to him as a man ; he has learned 
that no employment is dishonourable in itself? 
that while he performs aright the duties of 
that station in which God has placed him, he 
is as great as a king in the eyes of Kim whom 
he is principally desirous to please ; for the 
man of taste, who is constantly obliged to 
labour, must of necessity be religious. If you 
teach him only to reason, you may make him an 
atheist, a demagogue, or any vile thing ; but 
if you teach him to feel, his feelings can only 
find their proper and natural relief in devotion 
and religious resignation. He knows that those 
people, who are to appearance at ease, are 
not without their share of evils, and that even 
toil itself is not destitute of advantages. He 
listens to the words of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ! 
That like an emmet thou must ever mqil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early drudge, and late ; 

Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale I" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grate* 
ful recollection comes across his mind, how 
often he has derived ineffable pleasure from 
the sweet song of " Nature's darling child." 
I can say, from my own experience, that 
there is no sort of farm-labour inconsistent 
with the -most refined and pleasurable state 
of the mind that I am acquainted with, thrash- 
ing alone excepted. That, indeed, I have 
always considered as insupportable drudgery, 
and think the ingenious mechanic who invent- 
ed the thrasing machine, ought to have a statue 
among the benefactors of his country, and 
should be placed in the niche next to the per- 
son who introduced the culture of potatoes 
into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the 
education of the common people is, to prevent 
the intrusion of artificial wants. I bless the 
memory of my worthy father for almost every 
thing in the dispositions of my mind, a: 
habits of life, which I can approve of: and for 
Ii 



242 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 






none more than the pains he took to impress 
my mind with the sentiment, that nothing was 
more unworthy the character of a man, than 
that his happiness should in the least depend 
on what he should eat or drink. So early did 
he impress my mind with this, that although I 
was as fond of sweatmeats as children generally 
are, yet I seldom laid out any of the half-pence 
which relations or neighbours gave me at fairs, 
in the purchase of them ; and if I did, every 
mouthful 1 swallowed was accompanied with 
shame and remorse ; and to this hour I never 
indulge in the use of any delicacy, but I feel 
a considerable degree of self-reproach and 
alarm for the degradation of the human char- 
acter. Such a habit of thinking I consider as; 
of great consequence, both to the virtue and 
happiness of men in the lower ranks of life — 
And thus, Sir, I am of opinion, that if their 
minds are early and deeply impressed with a 
sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with the 
love of independence and of industry, economy 
and temperance, as the most obvious means of 
makingthemselves independent, and the virtues 
most becoming their situation, and necessary 
to their happiness ; men in the lower ranks of 
life may partake of the pleasures to be derived 
from the perusal of books calculated to improve 
the mind and refine the taste, without any dan- 
ger of becoming more unhappy in their situa- 
tion or discontented with it. Nor do I think 
there is any danger of their becoming less use- 
ful. There are some hours every day that the 
most constant labourer is neither at work nor 
asleep. These hours are either appropriated 
to amusement or to sloth. If a taste for em- 
ploying these hours in reading were cultivated, 
I do not suppose that the return to labour 
would be more difficult. Every one will allow, 
that the attachment to idle amusements, or 
even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to 
abstract men from their proper business, as 
the attachment to books ; while the one dissi- 
pates the mind, and the other tends to increase 
its powers of self-government. To those who 
are afraid that the improvement of the minds 
of the common people might be dangerous to 
the state, or the established order of society, I 
would remark, that turbulence and commotion 
are certainly very inimical to the feelings of a 
refined mind. Let the matter be brought to 
the test of experience and observation. Of 
what description of people are mobs and in- 
surrections composed ? Are they not universal- 
ly owing to the want of enlargement and 
improvement of mind among the common peo- 
ple? Nay, let any one recollect the characters 
of those Who formed the calmer and more de- 
liberate associations, which lately gave so 
much alarm to the government of this country. 
I suppose few of the common people who 



were to be found in such -societies, had the 
education and turn of mind I have been en- 
deavouring to recommend. Allow me to sug- 
gest one reason for endeavouring to enlighten 
the minds of the common people. Their 
morals have hitherto been guarded by a sort 
of dim religious awe, which' from a variety 
of causes, seems wearing off. I think the 
alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
short period of my observation. I have al- 
ready given my opinion of the effects of re- 
finement of mind on morals and virtue. 
Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake off 
the dogmas of the religion in which they have 
been educated, the progress is quick and imme- 
diate to downright infidelity ; and nothing but 
refinement of mind can enable them to dis- 
tinguish between the pure essence of religion, 
and the gross systems which men have been 
perpetually connecting it with. In addition 
to what has already been done for the educa- 
tion of the common people of this country, in 
the establishment of parish schools, I wish to 
see the salaries augmented in some proportion 
to the present expense of living, and the earn- 
ings of people of similar rank, endowments, 
and usefulness in society ; and 1 hope that 
the liberality of the present age will be no 
longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a 
class of men, such encouragement as may 
make parish schools worth the attention of 
men fitted for the important duties of that 
office. In filling up the vacancies, I would 
have more attention paid to* the candidate's 
capacity of reading the English language 
with grace and propriety ; to his understand- 
ing thoroughly, and having a high relish for 
the beauties of English authors, both in poe- 
try and prose; to that good sense and know- 
ledge of human nature which would enable 
him to acquire some influence on the minds 
and affections of his scholars ; to the general 
worth of his character, and the love of his 
king and his country, than to his proficiency 
in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
would then have a sort of high English class 
established, not only for the purpose of teach- 
ing the pupils to read in that graceful and 
agreeable manner that might make them 
fond of reading, but to make them under- 
stand what they read, and discover the beau 
ties of the author, in composition and senti- 
ment. I would have established in every pa- 
rish, a small circulating library, consisting of 
the books which the young people had read 
extracts from in the collections they had 
read at school, and any other books well 
calculated to refine the mind, improve the 
moral feelings, recommend the practice of 
virtue, and communicate such knowledge 
as might be useful and suitable to tho 



APPENIMX, NO. 3, 



243 



labouring classes of men. I would have 
the schoolmaster act as librarian, and in re- 
commending books to his young friends, for- 
merly his pupils, and letting in the light of 
them upon their young minds, he should have 
the assistance of the minister. If once such 
education were become general, the low de- 
lights of the public house, and other scenes of 
riot and depravity, would be contemned and 
neglected ; while industry, order, cleanliness, 
and every virtue which taste and independence 
of mind could recommend, would prevail and 
flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and 
enlightened populace, with high delight I 
should consider my native country as at the- 
head of all the nations of the earth, ancient or 
modern. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my 
letter. If 1 had not presumed on doing it 
more to my liking, I should not have under- 
taken it ; but I have not time to attempt it 
anew; nor, if I would, am I certain that I 
should succeed any better. I have learned to 
have less confidence in my capacity of writing 
on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the 
terms on which I possess it. I receive great 
encouragment likewise in building, enclosing, 
and other conveniences, from my landlord, 
Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general character 



and conduct, as a landlord and country gen- 
tleman, I am highly pleased with. But the 
land is in such a state as to require a consid- 
erable immediate outlay of money in the pur- 
chase of manure, the grubbing of brush- wood, 
removing of stones, &c. which twelve years' 
struggle with a farm of a cold, ungrateful soil 
has but ill prepared me for. If I can get these 
things done, however, to my mind, I think 
there is next to a certainty that in five or six 
years I shall be in a hopeful way of attaining 
a situation which I think as eligible for hap- 
piness as any one I know ; for I have always 
been of opinion, that if a man bred to the habits 
of a farming life, who possesses a farm of good 
soil, on such terms as enables him easily to 
pay all demands, is not happy, he ought to 
look somewhere else than to his situation for 
the causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me 
to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe, ju- 
nior, whose kind attentions to me, when in 
Liverpool, I shall never forget. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient, and 
Much obliged, humble Servant, 
GILBERT BURNS. 

To James Curhie, M. D.F.B. S.,) 
Liveiyool. \ 






GLASGOW: 

ANDREW & JOHN M. DUNCAN, 

Printers to the University. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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